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HE SMOTE AM' AY THE JA^VS OF THE NEAREST SERPENT, 



DIMITRIOS AND IRENE 


OR 

The Conquest of Constantinople, 


A HISTORICAL ROMANCE. 


BY 


CHARLES WAT^REN CUI^RIER. 




BALTIMORE : 

GALLERY & McCANN, 
5 W. MULBERRY ST. 

1894 . 



?Z3 

.Cf37X> 


Copyrig-ht, 1893, 


BY 

CHARLES WARREN CURRIER, 


PEEFACB. 


Not long since, my interest became centered in that 
sanguinary revolution which, in the beginning of our 
age, gave back to the Greeks the independence of which 
they had so long been deprived. The occasion of this 
was a small but most interesting story sent to me by its 
author, my distinguished friend, M. Dimi trios Bikelas, 
of Athens. Louki Laras awakened within me a desire to 
continue the study of the same subject. My mind be- 
came riveted on the Turks, who, in this century, as of 
old, have displayed such ferocious barbarity, for instance, 
in the massacre of Scio. — From the present, my thoughts 
reverted to the past, I contemplated the fall of Byzan- 
tium, and the story I now offer to the reader has been 
the outcome. 

I did not know when I began this tale that the dis- 
tinguished author of ‘‘Ben Hur” had prepared a Historical 
Komance the scene of which is laid in the same place and 
time as my own. However, though in the great histor- 
ical outlines resembling each other, they are worked 


4 


PREFACE. 


out on plans essentially different. May the little work 
I now send forth to the world serve to increase the 
interest of the public in a most interesting epoch of 
history ! It seems to me a favorable coincidence that 
it should appear at a time, when there is a marked 
tendency toward a union between the Eastern and West- 
ern churches, a tendency upon which especial stress is 
laid by an Encyclical of the Holy Father which is an- 
nounced for the near future. 

The Author. 


{ 


% 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE; 

OR, 

The Conquest of Constantinople. 


CHAPTER I. - 

It was towards the end of March, 1453. The day 
was drawing to a close, and the last rays of the sun as 
it descended eyer lower toward the western horizon, , 
cast a mellow reflection on the dome of St. Sophia, the 
patriarchal church of Constantinople, in which city our 
story begins. On a stone step at one of the doors of 
this yenerable pile, erected by the piety of the Emperor 
Justinian, sat an aged priest whose furrowed brow, long 
white locks and flowing beard which descended to his 
breast, gave him the appearance of one of the prophets of 
old. At least sixty years seemed to have passed over 
his head. He was attired in a long black robe, girded 
at the waist, with wide sleeves, and on his head he wore 
a hood like that of the monks, while the cape around 
his shoulders was adorned with a number of crosses. 
Erom under this cape, a black mantle descended to his 
feet, which were covered with sandals. Any one ac- 
quainted with oriental monasticism, would at once have 
recognized a monk of the Order of St. Basil, clad in the 
great or angelical habit. Beside the aged man sat a 
youth of twenty summers. His curly locks descended 
to his shoulders, his face slightly bronzed, was of the 
rue Grecian type, and it bore an expression of thought- 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


fulness and even marks of anxiety. He wore a loose 
■white tunic reaching to his knees, while a species of 
mantle was carelessly hung over his shoulders. The 
two appeared to have been for sometime in earnest conver- 
sation, w^hich had been followed by silence that lasted a 
few minutes. The first to interrupt it was the aged 
monk. As he spoke, there was something sad, yet 
sweet in his accents. A voice of deep tone contrasted 
well with the melody of the Attic dialect. 

‘Tt is true, Dimitrios, alas! too true, our proud city, 
our last stronghold, the only remnant of the glorious 
Koman Empire, the mistress of the world will soon be a 
slave of the Turk, Byzantium will be a thing of the 
past. Ol that I should live to witness this day! Why 
do I not sleep with my fathers? In the grave at least 
the Turk wields no power.” 

‘‘But, my father,” replied the young man, “are things 
then so far gone? Is there no hope?” 

“None, my child. You are aware of the fact that the 
Byzantine Empire has fallen piecemeal under the 
sway of the Turks. Since more than a century, the 
Empire of Constantine has been reduced to the small 
territory occupied by this city and a few provinces in 
the south. Ever since Prince Solyman crossed the 
Hellespont in the early part of the last century, the 
Turks have been encroaching upon us. Amurath I. 
subdued without resistance the whole province of 
Thrace from the Hellespont to Mount Haemus and, since 
then, the standard of the Ottomans floats proudly from 
the walls of Adrianople. Bajazet I., the son of 
Amurath, continued the work of his father, extending 
his conquests over Thrace, Macedonia and Thessaly. 
Eorgive this weakness, my son, but my blood boils 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREJSTE. 


7 


within me when the image of a traitor arises before my 
eyes. Who delivered our beautiful, but sadly afflicted 
Greece into the hands of the infidel, who led Bajazet 
through the pass of Thermopylae, once in olden times 
defended by Leonidas and his heroic band, who? alas! 
my son, one of our own, another Judas, a successor of 
the Apostles, a Bishop of our holy church. Betrayed into 
the hands of the enemy by a minister of Christ! The 
provinces of Greece were overrun. The powerful 
Christian army, 100,000 strong, led by Sigismond, King 
of Hungary, was entirely conquered by the Mussulman, 
-and, had the formidable invader not fallen into the 
hands of one greater than himself, the Tartar Tamer- 
lane, the fate of Constantinople would probably have 
been sealed long ere this. The accession of Mahomet 
I. to the throne was a star of hope for our empire, but 
it was a star that shone only a short time in the firma- 
ment ot history. His successor, Amurath II., would 
have laid siege to Constantinople, had an insurrection 
at Nice not turned aside his attention. When his mind 
reverted to our fair city, nothing awed it but the pay- 
ment of the annual tribute of 300,000 aspers and the 
relinguishing of Thessalonica. You know the fate of 
that unfortunate city, how, after a desperate resistance 
it was overpowered by the Turks. Its riches were carried 
off, the churches, with one exception, turned into 
Mosques and the inhabitants led into captivity. Our 
day had not yet arrived, but, believe me, my son, it is 
not far distant. The heroism of the intrepid Scander- 
heg in Albania kept the Turkish army occupied in 
.another direction, but Scanderbeg is no more and 
Albania is in the power of the infidel. Mahomet II. 
now rules over the Ottoman Empire and we know not 


8 


DIMITRIOS AN-D IREIs^E. 


what day we may expect his hosts before the walls of 
Constantinople. I was in my monastery of Agios- 
Kyi’iani, when Athens fell into the hands of the Sultan, 
and, alas! it was our Hegumenos who carried to him 
the keys of the city. For that reason the tribute im- 
posed on us by the conqueror is a small one.” 

Here the speaker interrupted his discourse as though 
overcome by some painful memory, and a tear glistened 
in his eyeo Dimitrios, seeing that the monk was silent, 
thus began: 

‘‘The picture you have drawn is indeed most appall- 
ing, but may we not hope thaj:, if Constantinople falls, 
at least, the lives of its inhabitants will be spared? 
At Thessalonica there was little bloodshed.” 

“True, my son, but a worse fate awaits our poor peo- 
ple. Slavery in its bitterest forms stares us in the face 
Our men will serve the Turk, our children will be 
educated in the religion of the Prophet, our women will 
become the victims of brutal lust and fill the harems of 
the Sultan and his officers.” 

Here the young man covered his face with his hand^, 
and, in a low voice, moaned; “Irene, my poor Irene, 
rather would I see thee in thy grave.” 

The monk noticed his emotion, and in a comforting 
tone, addressed him: “It is true, dreadful calamities 
hang over us, but remember there is a God; let us place 
our trust in Him.” At this moment the shadow of a 
man was seen to glide before them; both the monk and 
Dimitrios raised their eyes and an individual disap- 
peared around the corner of the sacred edifice. A 
deathlike pallor overspread the countenance of Dimi- 
trios and a shudder passed over his frame, but in an 
instant he had regained his composure. His companion 


DIMITKIOS AKD IREIfE. 9 = 

"had not noticed his emotion, and, arising, said: ‘‘Dimi- 
trios, the hour is advanced and I must leave you. To- 
morrow I leave Constantinople and return home, but I 
hope that we shall meet again under more joyful cir- 
cumstances.” Hereupon the monk and the young man 
embraced each other, the former entering the church 
and the latter pursuing his way along the street 
which passed between St. Sophia and the Hippodrome. 
He had not proceeded far when he heard his name 
called. Turning, he beheld the mysterous individual, 
the sight of whom had, a short time before, caused him 
to turn pale. Dimitrios, with teeth firmly set and 
knitted brows, awaited his arrival, while the other ap- 
proached him, smiling. ‘‘Hail, Dimitrios,” he exclaimed, 
‘T saw thee sitting on the steps of St. Sophia, but dared 
not interrupt thy earnest conversation. Whither 
goest thou?” 

“Hast thou aught to communicate to me?” replied 
Dimitrios. 

“No! but I fain would keep thee company on thy 
way.” 

“I prefer to be alone.” 

“Come, come, Dimitrios, why look at me like a bear? 
I have done thee no harm.” 

“Thou hast done me no harm? Is it then no harm to 
come between me and my bethrothed, to use all means 
in thy power, vile insinuations, detestable and false 
accusations, heinous calumnies to separate her from me 
and wdn her for thyself whom she detests?” 

Here a significant frown overshadowed the brow of 
the stranger whom we shall henceforth know as Nicolaus, 
while an ironical smile played upon his lips. 

“Thou hast been misinformed, Dimitrios,” he replied,. 


10 


DIMITEIOS AKD lEENE. 


‘^thou hast no better friend in Constantinople than my- 
self. I take Irene from thee! rather let my right hand 
wither. False friends have hlackend me before thy 
eyes.” 

‘‘Surely, Irene’s father is not a false friend.” 

Nicolaus grew pale, but hiding his emotion, he an- 
swered: “Have I said aught to Irene’s father concern- 
ing thee?” 

“No! but thou did’st speak to others in order that 
thy insidious words should reach his ears.” 

“False, false; it is a lie.” 

“Moreover, Nicolaus, actions sometimes speak louder 
than words. A winking of the eye, a shrug of the 
shoulder may hurt a man’s reputation as much as open 
nalumny. I know how thou hast acted in the presence 
of Irene and her father.” 

“Dimitrios, I have been misunderstood. If I have 
innocently been the cause that the least injury has been 
■done thee, I will endeavor to make amends. Give me 
thy hand, let us part as friends.” 

Dimitrios, though with evident aversion, extended 
his hand which was heartily pressed by Nicolaus, and 
the two separated, the former taking a side street and 
Dimitrios pursuing his way. When Nicolaus found 
himself alone, his hand clutched convulsively at some 
object concealed under his cloak. For a moment he 
seemed to reflect, then muttered between his teeth: 
“Patience, Nicolaus, patience! The moment has not 
yet arrived. Eevenge is sweet, but it becomes sweeter 
the more it is delayed. No! strike not yet, let a more 
horrible fate overtake him. Thy enemy shall fall. 
Irene shall yet be thine.” 


CHAPTER IL 


Eor more than an hour the city had been wrapped in 
the shades of evening. In one of the rooms of a large 
house, overlooking that part of the harbor called the 
^‘Golden Horn,” sat a small family, absorbed in the so- 
ciety of one another. The walls of the apartment were 
covered with the most exquisite Carrara marble, the 
polished surface of which reflected the glare of numer- 
ous torches, fixed in sockets projecting out of the walls. 
The ceiling was literally covered with plates of gold, 
worked most artistically, and representing various spe- 
cies of fruits and flowers. On the Mosaic floor were 
seen the figures of men on horseback, clad in the armor 
of Mediaeval times, and wielding the spear. The apart- 
ment was divided from the inner ones by a row of By- 
zantine pillars, on which a costly tapestry, woven with 
silken thread, was suspended. The entrance to the 
house was an arched doorway, constructed in the style 
of Byzantium. Everything indicated opulence and re- 
finement. 

On a chair of cedar wood, partly gilded, sat a man 
whose appearance indicated that he was past the middle 
age of life. His furrowed brow, and the deep lines of 
his face showed that he had not gone through life with- 
out care. His eyes, deep in his head, sparkled with vi- 
vacity as he spoke, while the expression of his mouth 
denoted great firmness. John Diogenes was one of the 
few Greeks who had retained their wealth. On a low 


12 


DIMITRIOS AJSTD IREJS'E. 


stool, at his feet, sat a maiden of seventeen, with her 
hand resting on his knee, while her face turned upward, 
showed a pair of black eyes, intently fixed upon her 
father. She was of surpassing beauty. Her raven hair, 
gracefully bound in a knot at the back of her head, left 
entirely exposed a forehead as white as portions of the 
marble on the wall. Her lips were slightly parted, 
exposing to view a row of teeth that looked like pearls, 
while on her cheeks bloomed the roses of youth and 
health. Her arms were bare from the shoulders down, 
while a loose, white robe enveloped her form. In front 
of the father knelt a boy of twelve, whose face bore a 
striking resemblance to his sister. His hands rested 
upon an illustrated book upon his father’s knees, and 
his countenance denoted rapturous attention. 

‘‘Basil,” spoke the father, “can you repeat to me, in a 
few words, what I told you last evening concerning the 
early history of our city ?” 

“Yes, father, I think I can. Byzantium was first 
settled in the sixth century before Christ, by Dorian 
Greeks, natives of the seaport town of Megara. With 
the exception of thirty years, during which it was held 
by the Persians, Byzantium maintained for three centu- 
ries its independence, although it was twice conquered 
by the Athenians, who, nevertheless, did not deprive it 
of its freedom. In the fourth century, the city fell under 
the power of Alexander, the Great, but after the death 
of Lysimachus, one of his successors, it was again free 
for a hundred years until it was absorbed by the great 
Koman Kepublic.” 

“It is well, my son, I am glad to see that your mem- 
ory renders you such good service.” 

“Father, dear,” chimed in Irene, “tell Basil how the 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


13 


name of Byzantium was changed for that of Constanti- 
nople.’’ 

‘‘Yes, father, do,” spoke the boy, “give me another 
opportunity to practise my memory.” 

“With pleasure, my children. The history of the 
great Constantine is known to you, Irene, and you, Basil, 
are familiar with his name. Beholding himself at the 
head of the greatest empire the world has ever known, 
this able general and no less able administrator under- 
stood how necessary it was to protect the empire against 
the incursions of the barbarians. The danger arose 
from two quarters ; from the Goths in the North, and 
from the Persians in the East. Moreover, the empire 
stretched over a great portion of Europe and Asia, and 
Constantine deemed it necessary that his capital should 
occupy a central position in the Empire, as well for 
the sake of greater facilities in holding the reins of gov- 
ernment, as of having a watchful eye on the enemy* 
Rome, the ancient capital, more than half way down 
the Italian Peninsula, was most inconveniently located, 
and no city in the East offered such inducements as By- 
zantium, hence, the first Christian Emperor determined 
to transfer the seat of the empire to this city, to which 
he gave the name of “New Rome,” but the people spon- 
taneously called it Constantinople, and that name it has 
retained to the present day, it being still governed by 
the successors of its founder.” 

“Thank you, father !” exclaimed brother and sister in 
one accord. Basil continued: “Is our present reigning 
emperor, Constantine, a descendant of Constantine the 
Great ?” 

“No, my son, Constantine belongs to the house of 
Paleologos. He is a descendant of Michael VIIL, an 


14 


DIMITRIOS IREJq’E. 


unprincipled general of the empire, who, about the year 
1260, obtained the crown by intrigue, and supplanted 
the boy-emperor, John Ducas.” 

‘‘But why did not the descendants of Constantine con- 
tinue to reign over the Empire ?” 

“For the simple reason, child, that there were no de- 
scendants, of Constantine left. The last was the Em- 
press Pulcheria, sister of the Emperor Toeodosius II. 
She died childless about the year 457. Thus, you see, 
it is a long time since the race of Constantine has be- 
come extinct.’’ 

“They say, father,” put in Irene, “that our present 
emperor is not a good man, because he has submitted to 
the Bishop of Borne.” 

“Our sovereign, my daughter, may be called the best 
prince the house of Paleologos has ever had, but, un- 
fortunately, in one respect, he seems to be blinded. Fol- 
lowing the example of John VI., his brother and prede- 
cessor, who submitted to the Latin Church, at Florence, 
a few years ago, in 1439, Constantine holds with Borne 
and the Boman Bishop.” 

“I do not know much concerning the difference be- 
tween ourselves and the Latin Christians, father,” said 
Basil. 

“It is a long story, my son. Suffice it to say that the 
encroachments of the Bishop of Borne on the rights of 
the oecumenical Patriarchs grew to be so unendurable, 
and their assumption of authority so intolerable, that a 
breach occurred between the Eastern and Western 
Churches, under the patriarch Phbtius, which became 
final under Michael Cerularius. Moreover, the Latins 
are heretical in some of their opinions concerning the 


DIMITRIOS Al^D IREJ^B. 


15 > 


Blessed Trinity, matters which are altogether above 
your comprehension.’’ 

‘‘But why did John Paleologos return to the juris- 
diction of the See of Kome, father ?” asked Irene. 

“He no doubt expected that the Pope would help him 
against the Turks, but that hope is vain.” 

“You make me tremble, father,” said the hoy, “when 
you mention that terrible name; is it true that the 
Turks are so near to our city ?” 

“Yes, my hoy,” said the father, with constrained in- 
difference; “they have erected forts only a few miles 
away from Constantinople, at the narrowest point on 
the Bosphorus. A great train of cannon has been col- 
lected at Adrianople, and a powerful fleet of war galleys 
has been built in various ports of Asia.” 

“But, surely,” said Basil, “our emperor and his sol- 
diers will resist.” 

“What can the emperor do ? The glory of the em- 
pire has waned and the war-like spirit that animated 
the Eoman legions no longer exists. Moreover, the em- 
peror has no more than four thousand troops at his 
command, and most of these are foreigners.” 

“But, will not the other nations of Christendom help 
us ?” queried Irene; “the cause is a general one.” 

“The emperor,” replied the father, “has exhausted 
his efforts in making appeals to the Pope and the Italian 
naval powers, but with what success ? Nicholas V. has 
sent some money, and a few hundred Italian hirelings. 
Giovanni Giustiniani has brought us from Genoa no 
more than two galleys and three hundred men. From 
Venice we have received only a few soldiers. Thus it is 
useless to speak of resistance, we can rely only on God.” 

“But,” exclaimed Basil, with energy, “what are the 


16 


DIMITRIOS AKD IllEi^E. 


Franks doing ? Did they not send powerful armies for 
the deliverance of the holy places, and shall they now 
remain inactive?” After a moment’s silence, when, each 
•one seemed to reflect, Basil added the question ; ‘‘Father, 
who are the present rulers of Christendom ?” 

“Nicholas V.,” Diogenes answered, “is Pope, and he 
rules over Rome and the adjacent territory. The Italian 
Peninsula is divided into a number of smaller states, the 
republics in the northern and central portion of the 
Peninsula being too numerous to be spoken of in detail. 
Florence is practically governed by Cosmo de Medici, 
the family of Sforza rules at Milan, Francisco Foscari 
is doge at Venice, and the house of Arragon reigns over 
the kingdom of Naples. The Spanish Peninsula is di- 
vided into various states. Castile is now ruled by King 
John II., Queen Blanche and John I. are sovereigns of 
Navarra, Arragon has as king Ferdinand I. The south- 
•eastern portion of the peninsula is comprised in the. 
Moorish kingdom of Granada. Frederick III. is the 
Emperor of the West, or rather, of the Germanic na- 
tions, Charles VII. is king of France, and in England 
reigns Henry VI. Thus, my son, you now behold in 
whose hands the destiny of the world reposes. The 
weakest of all is our own Emperor Constantine. From the , 
West we need await no help.” 

“Hark! father,” exclaimed Irene, “do you hear those 
distant sounds ? What can they mean ?” 

John Diogenes listened, then spoke slowly: “Yes, I 
hear an unusual noise, but be not alarmed, for, in these 
troublous times, everything is apt to frighten one.” 

Meanwhile, the sounds drew nearer, human voices, and 
«ven the name of the Emperor might be distinguished 
hbove the din. At that moment, the door burst open. 


ST. SOPHIA, ONCE A CHRISTIAN TEMPLE, NOW A MOSQUE. 








DIMITJEIIOS AKD IRENE. 


17 


and a young man with signs of dismay upon his counte- 
nance, rushed in. Irene turned with a frightened look 
and exclaimed : 

‘‘Heavens ! Dimitrios, what has happened ? Are the 
Turks before the walls 

“Ho, Irene,” he replied, scarcely noticing the presence 
of her father, “I will tell you all, as soon a^s I shall have 
regained my composure.” 

Turning to the master of the house, he bowed^ 
to him, saying : “Pardon me, my rudeness, my lord, 
but I scarcely knew where I was.” 

“Be seated, Dimitrios, and rest awhile, for you seem 
exhausted, then you may relate to us what has oc- 
curred.” 

The uproar in the streets appeared to have passed on> 
and it seemed to grow fainter as it withdrew to a greater 
distance. Dimitrios fell upon a seat, and, wiping his 
brow, began : “I was, this evening, walking along the 
Augustaeum, having been to St. Sophia, when I noticed 
a gathering of people opposite the palace of the Patri- 
arch. They were gesticulating and vociferating wildly, 
and here and there I could distinguish the words : “Bet- 
ter the turban of the Turk in Constantinople than the 
Pope’s tiara!” — I noticed several priests and monks, who 
were moving to and fro among the multitude, appar- 
ently haranguing them. Going up to an individual who 
seemed to be in a pensive mood, and who stood some- 
what apart, I inquired the reason of the tumult. He 
informed me that the Emperor had issued an appeal to 
the people, begging for volunteers to defend the holy 
city, the centre of Eastern Christendom. About a quar- 
ter of an hour after my arrival, the Emperor had been 
seen to enter the “Royal Gate,” on his return from St. 


18 


DIMITRIOS AliiD IREIS^E. 


Sophia. A man at that moment began to address a few 
persons, standing at the beginning of the Angustaeum. 
The crowd gradually increased, until, worked up to a 
pitch of frenzy, by the harangue of the demagogue, it 
moved toward the palace of the Patriarch, denouncing^ 
him and the Emperor for their apostasy, and protesting 
that not a Grecian sword should be drawn in defense of 
the house of Paleologos. Suddenly there was a move^ 
ment in the crowd, and the multitude rushed between St. 
Sophia and the Kathisma, through various other streets 
of the city, towards the “Golden Horn,” with what ob- 
ject I know not. Caught in the vortex, I was carried 
along in the wild rush until, reaching your house, I 
managed to effect my escape.” 

“These unfortunate demagogues,” said John Diogenes, 
they will be our ruin. The Emperor and the Patriarch 
have been unfaithful to our religion, it is true, but, here 
is a common cause, the fate of the Empire is at stake, 
all differences should be forgotten in the presence of the 
enemy. But, tell me, Dimitries, did you hear the name 
of the man who worked thus upon the feelings of the 
people, and caused such a tumult ?” 

“I did not, my lord ; in my pre-occupation I forgot to 
enquire, but you will pardon me if I say that I suspect.” 

“You suspect ? And whom ?” 

“I suspect Nicolaus Lecapenos.” 

A frown passed over the brow of Diogenes, as he en- 
quired ; “You suspect Nicolaus, and why ?” 

“I cannot really say why, but an instinctive feeling 
tells me it was he.” 

“This is most unreasonable, Dimitries. It is danger- 
ous to be guided by imagination.” 

“I think I have reasons. I know how bitter Nicolaus 


DIMITEIOS Am IREKE. 


19 ' 


is against the Emperor and the Patriarch. Yon are ac- 
quainted with the power of his eloquence, moreover, a 
short time before the tumult, I met him on the Augusta- 
eum, not far from the Patriarchal dwelling.” 

‘‘These are far-fetched reasons, hut, we shall see. 
Meanwhile, Dimitrios, I fain would exchange some words 
with you in private. Irene, withdraw, my child, and 
you, Basil, follow your sister.” 

Brother and sister, in obedience to their father’s com- 
mands, after bidding Dimitrios good night, withdrew to- 
wards the inner part of the house, through the row of 
pillars on which the tapestry hung suspended. As 
Irene vanished behind the folds of the heavy curtain, 
she turned, and cast a look of deep sympathy on Dimit- 
rios, who gazed after her in bewilderment, as though 
he would pierce the draperies with his look. Little did 
she dream, poor girl, of the sorrows that were in store 
for her, and that this was a last look she was casting 
upon him whom she called her betrothed. The 
night winds sighed, as though conscious of impending 
evil, and the gentle murmur of the waves could be heard, 
as, breaking upon the shore, they appeared to sing a 
melancholy chant. Dimitrios felt his heart sink within 
him, when he found himself alone with Irene’s father, 
and a sharp presentiment of evil seemed to sting his 
soul. Eor a few seconds the two gazed at each 
other in silence, as if loth to begin. Finally, the elder 
spoke : 

“You know how I have loved you. Your father, 
who now rests in the grave, was my bosom friend. On 
his deathbed, he begged me to watch over his infant 
son. Have I not been true to my trust ?” 


20 


DIMITKIOS lEEKE. 


A tear stood in the eye of Dimi trios. With an aston- 
ished expression on his countenance, he exclaimed : 

‘‘My lord, my father, rather, what has occurred ? Why 
ask that question 

“Patience, Dimitrios, you shall hear. I have been for 
you a second father, and, in order to draw you still 
closer to myself, I have promised you my daughter 
in marriage, that daughter whom I love as the apple of 
my eye.” 

Dimitrios gazed, bewildered, at the speaker, who con- 
tinued : 

“Had I not a right to expect from you gratitude, 
at least fidelity, in return ?” 

Dimitrios was silent. 

“Could I have dreamt that you would have de- 
ceived my daughter; in spite of all the affection 
I owed your father, never, no, never on earth, 
would you have crossed the threshold of this house. 0 ! 
whom shall I trust, since my idol has fallen to the 
ground, and the angel of light has been changed into a 
spirit of evil !” 

Dimitrios grew pale. 

“This evening when you entered my house I 
received you kindly, I would not that Irene 
should notice what was passing in my mind. But, hence- 
forth, you shall never meet her again, your serpent eye 
shall never again rest upon her pure form.” 

“My lord, what do you mean ? I understand you not. 
Has any one — ? Nicolaus, ah, yes, the demon!” and 
Dimitrios clenched his fist convulsively. 

“I have not seen Nicolaus for two weeks. Vomit not 
your gall on his innocent head. I have other proofs, cer- 
tain proofs, incontestable proofs, proofs which you can- 


DIMITRIOS AITD IREI?‘E. 


21 


not refute. I have the testimony of my dearest friend, 
who heard all from the lips of her whom you have 
chosen as your bride, while you make a dupe of my in- 
nocent daughter.’’ 

“But, my lord, explain, I am utterly ignorant of that 
to which you refer.” 

“You are ignorant ! Yes, too long has the mask of 
hypocrisy covered your face. Begone from my presence, 
never to return !” 

“But, may I not defend myself ? Confront me with 
my accusers.” 

“Dimi trios, I will be just, your request shall be 
gi’anted. On the twenty-fifth of next month, meet me 
at the Hippodrome, at the entrance to the imperial box, 
called the Kathisma, at two in the afternoon. Until 
then I decline to see your face.” 

“The twenty-fifth of next month ! Alas ! must I wait 
thus long ? Who knows ? It may be too late.” 

“It cannot be otherwise, it will be impossible for me 
to see the interested parties until then.” 

“And may I not see Irene, may I not bid her a last 
farewell ?” 

“Your eyes shall never fall on my daughter again. 
This is my final decision.” 

With this, the master of the ' house arose and 
pointed to the door. Himitrios, with tottering 
limbs, withdrew. In a few moments he was in 
the street. The door of the house he loved so well, 
where he had spent so many happy moments, was closed 
upon him — closed forever. Silence reigned supremely^ 
not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night save the 
gentle murmur of the wavelets, as they broke upon the 
shore, or the wind, as it swept past the forlorn youth. 


22 


DIMITKIOS AND IKENE. 


causing Ms locks to rise and fall in graceful ringlets on 
Ms shoulders. The stars looked silently down from the 
heavens, seeming to sympathize with the poor, suffering 
heart on earth, and reminding it that there is nothing 
steadfast, nothing true, but Heaven. Tor a long time 
Dimitries stood, fixed in the same spot, with his eyes 
raised heavenward, as if unconscious of Ms own exist- 
ence. His illusions had vanished, the earth seemed as 
naught, Ms spirit flew far away, and he exclaimed to 
himself : ^‘Could I hut share the solitude of Father Gre- 
gorios in his monastery of Agios Kyriani ! I will seek 
him; to-morrow he leaves for Athens.” 

With these words he departed from the spot most loved 
on earth, a spot to which he had so f reqently resorted, 
hut which he was never to tread again. A moment, 
and Dimitrios had vanished into the gloom. 


CHAPTEE III. 


The sun had risen high in the heavens, casting its 
rays upon the placid waters of the harbor which, in 
appearance, was converted into a sheet of polished sil- 
ver, studded with diamonds. The light fell through 
the glazed windows of St. Sophia, scattering itself in 
various hues over all the objects in the vast edifice. A 
ray of violet, darting in a straight line from above the 
sanctuary, fell upon the face of a youth who knelt ab- 
sorbed in prayer upon the marble floor. Dimitrios had 
spent a sleepless night and, before the dawn of day, had 
hastened to St. Sophia, for his heart in its utter loneli- 
ness, had turned instinctively to the companionship of 
Him who calls the weary to Himself and invites to come 
to Him all ‘Svho labor and are heavy burdened.” For 
three hours he had been kneeling unconscious of his 
surroundings, when a manly hand was laid upon his 
shoulders and the monk Gregorios stood beside him. 
Dimitrios arose with a smile upon his countenance and 
the monk beckoned him to follow. They both left the 
temple at the western door and stood beside the covered 
passage built on arches and leading to the imperial 
palace. 

“Dimitrios,” said the monk, “I had hardly expected 
to see you again, but I am delighted to find you in the 
house of God. I suppose you were recommending your 
afflicted country to the Almighty. I am also pleased to 
notice that you do not share in the fanaticism of the 


24 


DIMITRIOS AJs^D IKEKE. 


populace, who have abandoned St. Sophia since the 
patriarch has been reconciled to Rome. After all, my 
son, for centuries we were in communion with the See 
of Rome and our greatest men, the Chrysostoms, the 
Gregorys, the Cyrils and the Basils, looked up with 
reverence to the Bishop of Old Rome. If we do not 
share in the communion of the Latin Church, nor take 
part in the services of those who have submitted to the 
Pope, there is no reason why our veneration for this 
ancient and venerable edifice should cease. Think you 
not so, Dimitrios?’^ 

The latter, lost in revery, had scarcely understood 
the words of the monk. Suddenly startled in the. 
midst of his thoughts, he could not conceal his em- 
barrassment. 

‘‘You seem preoccupied,” said the venerable man, 
“has anything occurred to disturb your tranquillity?” 

“Father, I will accompany you to Athens.” 

“Accompany me to Athens, and why; what unex- 
pected business calls you thither?” 

“I have resolved to become a monk, to bury myself 
in your solitude of Agios Kyriani.” 

“To become a monk! Dimi trios, you are jesting, 
what sudden resolution is this?” 

“I am in earnest, thoroughly in earnest. Disgusted 
with a world I can no longer love, I wish to leave it.” 

“But you spoke not thus yesterday. Have my words 
alarmed you, are you afraid of the Turks, will you fly 
from the enemy?” 

“Ho, father, there is no fear in my heart, another 
motive power impels me.” 

“Confide in me, my son, you know I am your friend, 
Tvhat ails you?” 


DIMITRIOS A]S:D IREIS^E. 


25 


“Father, you are aware that I was bethrothed to Irene 
Diogenes.” 

“Aha! I suspected there was a love affair in this 
matter. Well, have you had a disagreement?” 

“Not in the least, but her father ” 

“Does her father object?” 

“Most emphatically. Hear me.” 

Dimitrios here related the occurences of the previous 
evening, the monk listened attentively. When the 
former paused, he thus began: 

“I understand your situation, I sound the depths of 
your feelings, hut, believe me, all will be well in the 
end. This thought of becoming a monk is only the im- 
pulse of a moment, it comes not from God. You 
would wrong Irene were you to abandon her now, she is 
perfectly innocent of the whole affair, and, who knows? 
she may need your assistance in the perilous days that 
are impending. Take my advice, my son, and for the pres- 
ent, stay where you are. Eemember your sister Helena, 
she has no one to depend upon but you, she was en- 
trusted to you by your dying mother, would you aban- 
don her in the hour of peril?” 

The youth was silent, the image of his sister arose 
before him, and Irene, he could not forget Irene. 

“If after six months,” the monk continued, “you still 
persevere in your resolution to abandon the world and 
Helena has been provided for, come to me, I will see that 
the doors of Agios Kyriani be opened to receive you, and I, 
myself, will gladly welcome you.” 

“Thanks, father, thanks, I will abide by your de- 
cision and do nothing hastily.” 

“Well said, my son. Now I must leave you. Stay 
an instant, here comes the emperor with his suite.” 


26 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


At that moment there appeared a man whose counte- 
nance indicated that some momentous preoccupation 
weighed heavily upon him. He was clad in long robes 
richly embroidered in gold and on each of his shoes he 
Avore a golden eagle. Accompanying him were ten 
noblemen of his court. 

‘‘How different from the ancient splendor of our em- 
peror!” said the monk, “surely Byzantium is only a 
ghost of its former self.” While he still spoke, the 
suite entered the church. 

“Poor emperor!” exclaimed Dimitrios, “one can see 
that he suffers.” 

“My son, I must now bid you farewell,” said the 
monk, “remember your promise, may God’s blessing 
rest upon you!” With these Avords he embraced the 
youth and departed. Dimitrios re-entered the church. 

It was the hour when the faithful were wont to 
assist at the Mass of the Presanctified which, during 
Lent, is celebrated daily instead of the Mass proper that, 
in the Greek Church, is offered during that holy season, 
only on Saturdays and Sundays. The edifice was sin- 
gularly vacant, only here and there a solitary individual 
being discernible in some secluded nook or recess. The 
church itself, built in the form of a Greek cross, 241 
feet long and 224 feet broad, seemed to stand there on 
the banks of the Bosphorus as a gigantic reminder of 
things that had been and a warning of things to come. 
It spoke of the distant past, when the great Constantine 
laid the foundations of the first St. Sophia, built 
probably in the style of the Basilicas, it told of its total 
destruction by fire on Easter night 404, the eve of the 
banishment of St. John Chrysostom, and how, when it 
had been rebuilt, it was once more burned to the 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE. 


27 


ground during the riots at Constantinople, which took 
place in 532, in the reign of Justinian to whom the 
present glorious edifice owes its origin. A lofty dome, 
reaching to a height of 180 feet above the floor, and 
pierced by at least forty windows, surmounts the cross. 
The aisles and side apses are divided from the cen- 
tral spaces by magnificent colonnades of marble pillars 
brought from the ancient Pagan temples of Asia. The 
whole of the interior, both roof and dome, is covered 
with gilding or mosaics, but the day is not far distant 
when all that magnificence shall disappear beneath the 
whitewash brush of the fanatical Turks. 

The emperor and his suite have taken their places in 
their magnificent stalls, the clergy has entered the 
sanctuary. The Patriarch officiates assisted by many 
of the clergy, among w'hom are present, the Protosyn- 
cellus, or Vicar-General, the Proto-Presbyter, or Arch- 
priest, and the Chartophylax, or chancellor. The ser- 
vice takes place in the ancient Greeek tongue, and the 
liturgy used is that of St. John Chrysostom. 

At the foot of the first pillar to the left of the altar, 
kneels one with whom we have been rendered ac- 
quainted, it is Dimitrios Phocas. The service is familiar 
to him, for it has undergone no change since the recon- 
ciliation with Rome, and the Latin Church has respected 
the venerable liturgies as well as the discipline of the 
Greeks. In his hand he holds a copy of the ^^Eucolo- 
gion” which contains the service. 

At the end of the office, when the emperor and his 
suite had left the church, Dimitrios arose to take his 
departure. As he reached the western door, he was 
brought face to face with the man who, the evening be- 
fore, had been his informant concerning the riots on 


28 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


the great square, called the Augustaeum. Dimitries, 
recognizing him, bowed, when the stranger, smiling, ex- 
claimed; “Ah! the young gentleman whom I had the 
honor of meeting last night!’’ 

“The same,” replied Dimitries with a bow, and he 
added; “Can you tell me the name of him who aroused 
the populace to such a pitch?” 

“I can,” was the answer, “he bears the name of 
Nicolaus Lecapenos, but I think that he has been ren- 
dered harmless for a time, for an order has been issued 
for his arrest.”' 

“I suspected as much,” replied Di mi trios. “Are you 
a Greek, sir?” 

“I am a Venetian; my name is Vincent Morosini.” 

“It is a great honor to me to form your acquaintance. 
I am Dimitrios Phocas.” 

“An illustrious name,” said the Venetian, with a 
somewhat sarcastic smile. 

Dimitrios noticed it and replied; “I think not that 
the blood of the usurper and tyrant Phocas flows in my 
Yeins, and, if it does, I repudiate the deeds of my in- 
glorious ancestor.” 

“Well said, you are a true Greek. May I have the 
pleasure of your company this morning, if you are not 
otherwise engaged?” 

Dimitrios bowed his thanks. 

As they moved onward, Morosini spoke ; 

“I would be inclined to say that, like most Greeks^ 
you will not wield the sword in defense of Constanti- 
nople, but the fact of your assisting at the office in St. 
Sophia, has caused me to doubt.” 

“Sir,” replied Dimitrios, reddening, “I am a Greek, 


BIMITRIOS AXD IRENE. 


29 


and, as a Greek, I will remember my duty to my coun- 
try ; danger shall find me at my post.” 

‘‘Bravo ! give me your hand ; henceforth we will be 
brothers. I go now to the Palace of the Emperor ; of 
course, you accompany me.” 

“Will I be admitted to the Imperial presence ?” 

“Undoubtedly. You will be my companion. I have 
free access to the Emperor.” 

They had been moving in a northern direction, in 
front of the Church, when, turning to the right, they 
whlked toward the east, between St. Sophia and the 
hospice of Sampson, until they reached the Chalcopra- 
teion, or Brassmarket, whence they turned around St. 
Sophia, and walking in a southeastern direction, came 
to the Royal Gate, which gives admission to the enclos- 
ure, in the southern portion of which the Palace is sit- 
uated. 

“How sad !” exclaimed Dimitrios. “One may truly 
say, that Constantinople is in ruins. Everywhere the 
eye meets nothing but remnants of former magnifi- 
cence ; more than half of the city is unoccupied ; our 
population, which was 700,000 in the year 600, has now 
dwindled down to a hundred thousand, most of whom 
dwell in great poverty ; part of the porticoes of St. 
Sophia have fallen, and our people have not the means 
to make the necessary repairs,* and now, behold ! this 
great and noble Palace, with its grounds of 150 acres, 
its outer wall a mile long; this pride of our city, is so 
dilapidated, that the Imperial family only inhabits a 
mere corner of it. Alas ! I fear the end is nigh.” 

“Too true,” replied Morosini, “such is the fate of na- 
tions. Let us rest a while upon this broken column, 
an emblem of the decay of human institutions.” 


30 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


They both sat down in silence. The Venetian, gazing- 
at the Palace, seemed lost in reflection ; finally, he be- 
gan: 

‘Tt is evident to every reflecting and unbiased mind, 
that the world’s history has been developed according- 
to a fixed and determined plan, and that the hand of a 
wisely-governing Providence appears throughout the 
entire course of the events that have occurred during 
the existence of man upon the earth. The same causes 
have universally been followed by the same effects, and 
there exists within the great variety of scenes enacted 
in the drama of history, a most perfect harmony. Na- 
tions, however much divergent from one another in 
manners, customs, laws and actions, all, more or less, 
resemble one another in the great outlines of their his- 
tory. The invariable laws that seem to rule the course 
of human events are so fixed, that the world’s past 
serves as a basis for conjecturing what the future will 
be. Nations were born, flourished and died, thus re- 
sembling the individuals of which they were composed ; 
for there is a marked analogy between the life of na- 
tions and the life of individuals, and man, the micro- 
cosm, is a miniature image of the great world of which 
he forms a part. 

‘‘Some nations there are, with whose history we are, 
more or less, acquainted,* that long since have ceased to 
be, whose birth remains wrapt in obscurity. Most of 
the ancient nations of the world, such as the Assyrians, 
Babylonians and Persians, belonged to this class. Others 
there are who still live on, either in a decrepit old age, 
as the remnant of the ancient Egyptians, or in the full 
strength and vigor that belonged to youthful days, like 
the inhabitants of Schythia. When we follow the his- 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE. 


31 


tory of nations, either those which are extinct, or those 
that still exist, we find that their prosperity, as well as 
their decay, is generally attributable to similar causes. 
This is true, not of separate nations alone, but also of 
an entire class of nations that form an existing state of 
society. 

“Of man, before the Deluge, we know comparatively 
little ; our investigations are limited to the nations that 
followed the great catastrophe. The peoples of the 
earth formed, after the Deluge, with the exception, per- 
haps, of the Assyrians, we find living in a barbarous,, 
semi-harharous or nomadic condition. Then, after 
many struggles, they attain to a period of great prosperity,, 
in which the sun of their history seems to have reached 
its meridian. Finally, their glory declines ; the very 
greatness of their civilization becomes the cause of their 
ruin. Weakened by internal dissensions, or excess of 
luxury, they easily fall a prey to strong, and often bar- 
barous, nations ; they are swept out of existence, or 
they mingle with their conquerors. 

“Ancient Babylonia, developed, probably, from Tu- 
-ranian, Acadian and Semitic tribes, had reached a high 
degree of civilization in times most remote. Being 
conquered by Assyria, it regained its independence in 
the seventh century before Christ, and reached the 
height of its glory under Nebuchadnezzar II. The 
Babylonians were noted for their effeminacy, luxury 
and licentiousness, and this, no doubt, paved the way 
for the Persian dominion. Babylonia was conquered 
by Cyrus in 539 B. C. 

“Assyria was, it appears, originally an offshoot of the 
Babylonian monarchy. It attained to a high degree of 
power, and, after the reign of Sennacherib, in the eighth 


32 


DIMITRIOS AXD IREJ^E. 


century before Christ, gradually decayed, until it was 
destroyed about 606 B. 0. 

•‘Egypt, oyer the origin and the duration of which a 
veil of mystery hangs, was, after a succession of dynas- 
ties, and a series of conquests and defeats, subjugated 
by the Persians in 340 B. 0., and it - finally fell under 
the dominion of Alexander the Great, and, later, of the 
Ptolemies, in whose possession it remained until it was 
incorporated into the Eoman Empire. 

“The Medes and Persians, first separate peoples, were 
united by conquest, and they became one nation under 
Cyrus. Under Darius Hystaspes, the Persian Empire 
had reached its highest period of prosperity, but the 
reverses of fortune sustained in the struggle with 
Greece, under Xerxes, began its decadence. Under Da- 
rius III., it fell into the possession of Alexander the 
Great. 

“This monarch, son of Philip of Macedon, conquered 
the world, and founded the short-lived Macedonian Em- 
pire. Most of the civilized countries of the world fell 
under his sceptre, and he pushed his conquests beyond 
the Indus. His return march from India was fatal. • 
After his death, in 323 B. C., his vast empire, too vast 
to continue, was split up and divided among his Gen- 
erals. Thus ended the power of Greece, that noAV made 
room for another and more lasting power, that of Pome. 

Kome, from its humble beginning upon the banks of 
the Tiber, gradually grew to be the mistress of the 
world. The Roman eagle soared above almost all the 
nations of the earth, and overshadowed them with its 
wings. Under Augustus, it was at the very zenith of 
its glory; but, like the nations that had preceded it, the 
height of its prosperity was the beginning of its adversity. 


DIMITKIOS AKD lEEKE. 


33 


The worm of luxury began to gnaw at the root of its 
civilization until the huge tree fell. When in the fifth 
century of our era, the barbarians from the north closed 
in around, and the steppes of Asia let loose their hordes 
upon it, the sturdy Romans of the days of the Republic 
no longer existed, - and their degenerate descendants 
possessed neither the skill, the strength, nor the valor 
to resist the invaders. Centuries of licentiousness had 
rendered them completely powerless, and the Empire of 
the AVest disappeared in its turn from among the nations. 
Does it not seem to you that the turn of Byzantium has 
arrived? The empire of Constantine is in a state of ir- 
reperable decay, the barbarous Turks are before the 
walls, Byzantium shall fall, as Assyria, Babylonia, 
Persia, Macedonia and Rome fell, and I hold it for cer- 
tain that the empire which began with a Constantine, 
shall end with a Constantine. Is there not a singular 
coincidence here? The founder of Rome was Romulus, 
and the founder of the Roman empire was Augustus. 
The last sovereign of Imperial Rome was another Romu- 
lus, with the diminutive name of Augustulus. The 
founder of Constantinople was Constantine, and it may 
be that his last successor will bear his name.” 

Dimitrios covered his face with his hands to hide the 
tears that were forcing themselves to his eyes. Morosini, 
noticing his emotion, continued: “Be not downcast, my 
friend; your country may fall, but Phcenix-like, the 
Grecian people may still arise from its ashes. Let us at 
least have the satisfaction of doing our duty. Come! We 
proceed.” 

Morosini and Dimitrios now directed their steps to- 
wards the palace. The guards at the entrance, recogniz- 
ing the Italian, allowed hinf to pass. Walking towards 


34 


DIMITRIOS Aiq-D IREJs^E. 


a door with which he seemed familiar, Morosini whis~ 
pered to an attendant who admitted him into a spacious 
apartment. The floor consisted of mosaics, while the 
marble walls and gilded ceiling gave evidence of the 
splendor which once belonged to the palace of the By- 
zantine emperors. In this room they waited for a short 
time, when a door opened, and a richly-clad servant en- 
tered and, bowing, invited them to follow him. Ascend- 
ing a flight of stairs and passing through a wide corri- 
dor, they reached an arched door which admitted them 
nto a magniflcent hall. Its decorations greatly resem- 
bled those of the former apartment, but at one end of 
the room there stood a gilded throne upon an elevated 
platform, over which a rich canopy of red and gold 
hung suspended. It was the first time that Dimitrios 
had entered within the precincts of the imperial palace, 
and he stood breathlessly awaiting the arrival of the 
emperor. Finally the door opened, and the body guard 
of the sovereign entered, followed by the monarch him- 
self. The guards drew up in tivo lines, facing each 
other, while the emperor walked between them towards 
the visitors, who both knelt before him. Bidding them 
arise, the emperor took each by the hand as he spoke: 
‘Tn the common misfortunes that befall our country, we 
suspend the rules of etiquette. Morosini, who is this 
young man 

“One of Your Majesty’s most faithful subjects,” re- 
plied the Italian, “one who is determined to stand or 
fall with Constantinople.” 

The emperor’s eyes twinkled. Grasping the young 
man by the hand, he asked: “Have you ever borne arms, 
my son ?” 

“Never, Your Majesty,” he replied. 


DIMITRIOS AND IKENE. 


36 


‘‘You will soon be proficient, I see it in your manly 
bearing. I appoint you a member of my guard, 
hencefortb you will be attached to my own person. But 
of this later. Morosini have you a communication to 
make?” 

“I have. Sire, but for your ear alone is it intended.” 
Hereupon the emperor withdrew the Italian to a distance 
and listened as he spoke. 

“Sire, Nicolaus Lecapenos, whose arrest you have or- 
dered, has gone over to the Turkish camp. He left the 
city secretly by water, and, before taking his departure, 
he communicated his design to a friend, through whose 
indiscretion the matter has leaked out.” 

“Traitor !” exclaimed the emperor, “on whom shall 
we rely? But, tell me, have I been too hasty in appoint- 
ing this young man? May we depend upon him?” 

“Your Majesty, I can vouch for him, I have been ac- 
quainted with him for some time, though he knew it 
not, though he had never seen me until last night. I 
have watched him carefully; unseen by him, I have over- 
heard his conversations. <4 am convinced of his patriotism. 
Nicolaus Lecapenos, while pretending to be his friend^ 
is his mortal enemy.” 

“Enough,” said the emperor, “he has my confidence. 
I thank you for the information conveyed to me. Should 
Lecapenos again enter the city, his life shall pay for his 
desertion. I rely on you to report to me anything of 
importance that may occur.” 

Morosini bowed and the emperor turned toward Dim- 
itrios, saying in a loud voice: “Introduce the young man 
to the chieftain of the guards, to whom I myself will 
transmit special orders concerning him. But, what is 
his name ?” 


3^ 


DIMITKIOS AND lEENE. 


“Dimi trios Phocas,” replied Morosini. 

‘‘Well, Dimi trios,” said the emperor, “show thyself a 
true son of Byzantium.” 

The emperor smiled upon the two men, and turning, 
withdrew in the midst of his soldiers. 

In a few moments, Morosini and Dimitrios were in 
the streets where they parted, promising to meet in the 
afternoon, to proceed together to the quarters of the im- 
perial guards. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The day was nearly spent, the rays of the sun 
descended obliquely towards the earth, fleecy clouds 
soared high in the heavens, while huge masses of vapor 
gathered above the horizon toward the East where the 
Black Sea washed the shores of what was once the By- 
zantine Empire, which had now, almost entirely, suc- 
cumbed to the Turkish power. Far out towards the 
West, the eye discerned the towers of Adrianople, over 
which the sun still lingered as though loth to part with 
another day, which he was soon to lose forever. At 
that moment another sun was setting, the sun of 
Byzantium’s life. Internal dissensions, treachery and 
vice had done their work and the empire was approach- 
ing its end. A solitary horseman was seen pursuing 
his way in the direction of the city. He rode a fiery 
Arab steed, causing the earth to tremble beneath its 
hoofs, while here and there a flock of birds flew upward 
from a neighboring bush, frightened from their retreat 
by the unwonted sound. The country seemed deserted, 
no other human-being was in sight and the fertile acres 
appeared to have been for a long time neglected. Above 
the walls of the city, floated the triumphant standard of 
Mahomet. The solitary rider, spurring his horse, mut- 
tered to himself: ‘^I must reach it before the gates are 
closed.” His horse, foaming at the mouth, dashed on- 
ward scarcely touching the earth and seeming rather to 
fly than to run. The city grew more distinct, its forti- 


38 


DIMITEIOS Ai^'D IKEiq'B. 


iications and walls standing out in strong relief against 
the sky. The sun sank lower, the day was fast declin- 
ing, the gates would soon be closed. Onward rushed 
the rider, heedless of all save the goal of his journey. 
Persons were seen to move within the city’s eastern gate 
which was now a stone’s throw away. A Turk, with 
drawn scimitar, advanced. Approaching within speak- 
ing distance, he exclaimed in the Turkish language: 

“Halt.” 

Obedient to the command, the rider drew the reins 
of his horse. 

“Who art thou?” asked the Turk. 

“A friend. I come from Constantinople, I am the 
bearer of important news.” 

These words were spoken in the same language. 

“A Greek !” exclaimed the follower of the prophet in 
a low voice, “a Greek who speaks the Turkish tongue, 
probably sent to sue for peace. But no I an ambassador 
would hardly come alone.” 

“Advance, stranger.” The rider, gently touching his 
horse, proceeded trotting towards the Turk over whose 
face a sign of recognition suddenly passed, while his 
rude countenance displayed a ferocious grin, intended for 
a smile. 

“Ah I Nicolaus Lecapenos, hast thou come at last? 
The Sultan has threatened to strike off thy head, if thou 
should’st have delayed twenty-four hours longer.” 

“I am delighted at having escaped the danger, but 
the Grand Seignor may also thank his stars, for he 
would have lost one of his best and most useful sub- 
jects.” 

“We want no impertinence, Christian dog, take heed 


DIMITRIOS Al^D IREKE. 


39 


ix) thy words/’ and with this the Mahomedan brandished 
his sword. 

‘‘Why call me a Christian; have I not embraced the 
religion of the Prophet?” 

“Yes, hypocrite, to serve thy own base purposes, hut” 
— and here he spoke in lower tones — “thou dost believe 
as much in the Prophet as I do, who was born a Chris- 
tian in the far-off North, but whom circumstances have 
turned into a Turk.” 

“Take thou heed to thy own words, Selim, or I will 
have thy headless trunk thrown to the ravens ere to- 
morrow’s sun gilds the minarets of yonder mosque.” 

“I mock thy words, Nicolaus, it is in my power to have 
thy head exposed to the scorn of all the faithful from 
the summit of this very gate. Dost thou remember 
Leila, the maiden, half Greek and half Italian, who 
lives in Constantinople? I know what thou did’st say 
to her. Did’st thou not assert that were it to thy ad- 
vantage, and were Prince Orkhan to revolt to-morrow 
against the Sultan, thou would’st not hesitate to join 
his standard, that thou carest neither for Sultan, Em- 
peror nor Pope, but only for thy own dear self? Well, 
if thou carest for thy own dear self, take heed how thou 
speakest to me.” 

Nicolaus, evidently embarrassed, exclaimed; 

“Come Selim, let us be friends.” 

“As long as it suits my purpose, young man.” 

With these words he beckoned Nicolaus to follow. 
Entering the city, the Greek alighted from his horse, 
which he fastened to a post. Following Selim into a 
doorway beside the gate, he seated himself on a stone 
bench. 

“Well, Selim, ’ he began, “is everything favorable?” 


40 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


‘^You should know that better than I.” 

‘‘So be it then. When do you think that I can see 
the Sultan?” 

“This very night. I will inform him immediately of 
thy arrival.’’ 

Hereupon Selim withdrew, leaving Nicolaus to his re« 
flections. A long time passed, which seemed an eternity 
to the Greek, the minutes appearing to have grown into 
hours. Finally the door opened and Selim appeared. 
Beckoning to Nicolaus, he said: 

“Follow me, the Sultan desires thy presence.” 

Arising, the latter proceeded to untie his horse, but 
he was prevented by Selim, who said: 

“I will take care of the animal, go thou hence with 
these two soldiers who will direct thee.” 

The men indicated, preceded Nicolaus in silence until 
they reached the front of a large palace. Entering the 
arched doorway they whispered to a servant and Nicolaus 
was conducted by them to an anteroom, where he was 
left to himself. The apartment was almost devoid of 
furniture, there being in it neither chairs nor tables, 
though magnificent rugs were everywhere spread upon 
the floor. After waiting a few moments, he was sum- 
moned to appear before the Sultan. Suddenly a large 
folding door opened as if by magic, and he found him- 
self at the entrance of an immense hall, which was 
literally flooded with the light of innumerable torches. 
On both sides of the room Turkish guards stood in line 
with drawn scimitars which flashed in the glare of the 
artificial light. At various distances from one another 
were seated on carpets dignitaries of the court with their 
legs crossed. At the opposite extremity of the hall, and. 
seated in the same attitude, was a man in the full \dgor 


DIMITRIOS AKD lEENE. 


41 


of youth. His countenance bore the marks of the most 
arrogant pride, his nose was aquiline, his lips sensual, 
and his eyes cruel. He was clad in Turkish style, with 
wide trousers drawn together at the feet, while over his 
shoulders hung a rich mantle worked in gold. In the 
front of his turban sparkled a precious stone of enor- 
mous size, inlaid in the same metal. 

As his eyes fell upon the Greek, they twinkled with 
an expression of cunning, mingled with pleasure. The 
newcomer being led into the presence of the Turkish 
Majesty, fell prostrate upon the ground. At the bidding 
of the Sultan, he arose. 

‘‘Thou hast at last arrived,” spoke the Monarch, “but 
leave thy excuses for another time, make haste and relate 
what thou hast learned.” 

“In Constantinople,” replied Nicolaus, “the greatest 
discontent prevails with the Emperor and the patriarch, 
I myself have helped to foster it. The population is in 
a state of apathy; nearly all have turned a deaf ear to 
the appeal of the Sovereign, and only two thousand 
Greek volunteers have consented to join the defenders 
of the city, the number of whom is known to you. The 
time is now ripe, strike one blow and Constantinople 
shall fall.” 

“That blow shall soon be struck,” replied the Sultan, 
“The Emperor has appealed to my clemency in behalf 
of his remnant of an Empire, but appeals are now use- 
less. The Cross must yield to the Koran, Mahomet shall 
rule in Constantinople. First, however, thou hast a 
mission to fulfill. To-morrow thou must return to that 
city.” 

The countenance of Nicolaus fell. Trembling, he ex- 


42 


DIMITEIOS AND IKENE. 


claimed: ^^Return to that city. I will never leave it alive, 
for the Emperor has ordered my arrest.” 

‘‘Thou shalt go in disguise.” 

“So be it,” answered Nicolaus, “and what shall my 
mission be?” 

“Thy mission shall be to foster the spirit of discon- 
tent among the people. Thou shalt remain in Constanti- 
nople until the Turkish army has entered. If thou 
succeedest, the Greek beauty on whom thou hast set thy 
heart, shall be thine; if not, thy head shall fall. Thou 
mayst now retire.” 

Nicolaus again prostrated himself before the Sultan, 
and, conducted by two guards, left the palace. 

It was night when he reached the house of Selim, who 
awaited him. 

“Well, Greek,” said the Mahometan, “how didst thou 
fare?” 

“Badly enough,” was the reply, “I must return to 
Constantinople. They will kill me like a dog, and throw 
my carcase to the birds of prey.” 

•‘The world will be well rid of thee.” 

Nicolaus frowned, but repressed his anger. 

“Tell me, Selim, he asked, “how didst thou know 
Leila?” 

“There is very little in Constantinople that I know 
not, thou art not the only spy in the world. It matters 
not how I know Leila, sufficeth for thee that I know 
her. Thou hast made her thy tool, but that tool may 
some day cut thee. Thou hast used her lying tongue to 
injure young Dimitrios Phocas, thou didst even endeavor 
to employ her to ingratriate thyself with the Byzantine 
Court, and thou wouldst have been willing to betray the 
cause of the Turk, had the Greeks consented to remun- 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


43 


€rate thee according to thy desires. But the Emperor 
knows all now, and thou wilt do well if thou dost escape 
from Byzantium with thy life.” 

“Heavens! Selim, thy knowledge astounds me. It is 
useless to enquire from what source it has been derived, 
I see that I am between two fires, but thou wilt be my 
friend, wilt thou not?” 

“I have told thee once that I would, as long as it suits 
my purpose, but beware lest thou offend me.” 

“Thou shalt not have to complain of me, Selim. But 
I must go, to-morrow’s sun shall find me on my way to 
Constantinople. Farewell I” 

Nicolaus now departed to the house of a friend, where 
lie was to spend the night. 

The next morning, long before daybreak, he had left 
the city, an order from the Sultan having procured the 
opening of the gates. As he journeyed along, he thus 
mused within himself: 

“Infamous Turk 1 he has discovered my secret. 
Gladly would I tie a stone around his neck and bury 
it with him under the waters of the Bosphorus. 
But I will have my revenge. Nicolaus, would it not 
be better for thee to throw thyself upon the mercy 
of the Emperor, and reveal to him the plans of the Sul- 
tan ? But no! thy life would be in still greater danger- 
for Constantinople will certainly fall, and thou wouldst 
lose thy head. Even didst thou live, the coveted reward 
would not be thine, thou wouldst not possess Irene. 
Take courage, Nicolaus, the danger is great, but the re- 
ward is greater.” 

Thus conversing with himself, Nicolaus Lecapenos 
proceeded on his way to Constantinople, until, devi- 
ating from the straight road, after a long journey, he 


44 


DIMITRIOS AKD IKENE. 


reached the Turkish fort, on the Bosphorus, where a 
letter from the Sultan assured him a most cordial wel- 
come, Here we leave him, to follow the events transpir-^ 
ing in Constantinople. 


CHAPTER V. 


‘‘Father, father ! Come quickly !” exclaimed a voice 
from the courtyard of the house of John Diogenes. 

“What ails thee, my son ?” sounded the reply from 
the inner portion of the building, and, at the same time, 
Diogenes stepped out into the court where, beside a 
fountain, knelt Basil, with his hand on the forehead of 
his sister, Irene, who evidently had swooned. 

“Poor child !” exclaimed the father, “she has grown 
exceedingly weak.” 

Indeed, whosoever had seen Irene when, a few days 
before, seated at her father’s feet, she drank in his 
words, as he spoke of the history of Constantinople, 
would hardly have recognized her now. Her eyes were 
sunken; the roses had faded from her cheeks; the 
springtide of joy had vanished from her life, and it was 
evident that the cold, dreary, winter of some intense sor- 
row had settled upon her. Kneeling beside his child, 
and bathing her forehead with the cool water of the 
fountain, Diogenes endeavored to recall her to conscious- 
ness. Finally, his efforts seemed successful, and she 
opened her eyes, which had lost all their fire, and be- 
come dull and languid. Allowing them to wander 
hither and thither, with a puzzled expression on her 
face, she moaned in a low voice : “Dimitrios,” and again 
closed her eyes. 

“My child, do not you know me ?” said her father. 


46 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


The young girl opened her eyes and allowed them ta 
rest with a languid expression upon his face. 

'‘You are fired, my dear,” he said, “and need rest* 
Basil, send for a litter.” 

In a few moments the hoy returned, with two serv- 
ants, who carried a litter, upon which they gently placed 
the girl, then bore her into the house, followed by 
Diogenes and his son. The young lady was taken to a 
room and laid upon a magnificent couch, while a female 
attendant was summoned to wait upon her. Gradually, 
her strength seemed to return, but the color came not to 
her wan cheeks ; the roses seemed to have faded forever. 
Her father sat by her side, looking anxiously at her. 
Basil entered the room and whispered : 

“Father, there is an aged pilgrim in the atrium, wha 
says that he desires to see you.” 

“I will come instantly, my son, meanwhile stay with 
your sister, but remain very quiet.” 

The father now proceeded to the atrium, where his 
eyes tell upon a man of venerable mien, whose white 
locks descended to his shoulders, while a full beard, of 
immaculate whiteness, reached his chest. He was clad 
in the garb of a pilgrim, a broad hat hung upon his 
Dack, and he leaned upon a staff, as though worn out by 
his travels. As his eye fell upon the master of the 
house, he bowed profoundly. 

“Holy man,” spoke the former, “I bid thee welcome 
to my hospitable dwelling. Ko doubt, thou hast come 
from a distance, and needest rest and refreshment; 
thou shalt find both under my roof.” 

“A thousand thanks; may the Virgin Mother of 
Christ protect thee !” replied the aged man, in a feeble 
voice, “I have been refreshed, and the pangs of hunger 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


47 - 

have been stilled, but I will gladly accept thy hospi- 
tality, and may it be in my power to reward thee V 

“Hast thou been to the Holy Places, venerable pil* 
grim ?” 

“I have just returned from Jerusalem, and I am now 
proceeding to my own country. Burgundy.” 

“You are a Frank? But you speak our language' 
perfectly.” 

“I. am a Frank, but I hope that our difference of 
creed will not cause me to be less acceptable in your 
sight. I love the Greeks. I have traveled much in the' 
Levant, and there I learned to speak your beautiful 
language.” 

“May I inquire into the nature of your profession,, 
holy father ?” 

“I am a physician ; I learned the art in the Monastic 
Schools of Italy.” 

“A physician ; thank God ! You are thrice welcome. 
You must know, I have a daughter ; a beautiful girl ; 
an angel. For some time she has sickened and wasted 
away. The least fatigue or emotion, causes her to faint. 
Only this morning I found her in a swoon. The men 
versed in the science of medicine, whom I have con- 
sulted, have been unable to console me. The disease 
seems to baffle their skill. Perhaps, Providence has 
sent you to this house to relieve the heart of a disconso- 
late man.” 

“It may be in my power to afford some relief, and I 
will be infinitely happy thus to repay your hospitality. 
May I see the lady ?” 

“Undoubtedly. Follow me.” 

Diogenes led the way, accompanied by the pilgrim.. 
Entering the room of his daughter, he spoke : 


48 


DTMITRIOS Ais^D IREXE. 


“I have brought you a friend; a physician; a holy 
man, who has just returned from a visit to Palestine. 
He will cure you.” 

The stranger approached. Irene smiled faintly, but 
as her eye fell upon the face of the pilgrim, she expe- 
rienced an indescribable feeling of antipathy. The 
holy man took her hand and felt her pulse ; its beating 
was weak, but rapid. He gazed at her countenance, 
looked into her eyes, and smiled. 

‘‘She will recover,” said he to her father, “if you fol- 
low the directions I will give. Meanwhile, she must be 
kept quiet, and no one must be allowed to see her.” 

Turning to Irene, he said : 

“Young lady, I will see thee again.” 

He bowed and left the room, followed by her father. 
When they were alone, the pilgrim spoke : 

“You know that the Turks are approaching nearer to 
this city. A long siege will ensue, and I assure you 
that, besides the danger to which your daughter wdll be 
exposed, if the city falls, the excitement of a long siege 
will be fatal to her in her present weak condition. 
Have you a villa removed some distance from Constan- 
tinople ?” 

“I have a splendid villa in Attica.” 

“You have ? The climate of Attica is delightful — a 
perpetual spring reigns there ; rain is rare, and a cloudy 
day is seldom seen. There could be no better place for 
your daughter than Attica. Eemove her at once, if you 
value her life.” 

“But the whole country is in the hands of the Turks ; 
such a journey could not be undertaken without dan- 
ger.” 

“Not the least danger exists. I am a friend of the 


DIMITRIOS IREJ^E. 


49 


Pasha who commands the Turkish fort on the Bospho- 
rus. I have rendered him great services, and he is in 
my debt. I will obtain a guard to accompany you and 
your daughter.” 

Diogenes regarded the pilgrim with a look of diffi- 
dence. 

“You need not be alarmed,” spoke the latter. “I see 
no other way of saving your daughter’s life. It will be 
certain death for her to remain in Constantinople. I 
will follow you after a few days.” 

“I would like to reflect,” said Irene’s father. 

“Delay is dangerous. After the siege begins, it will 
be impossible to depart. You must go now, or sacrifice 
your daughter.” 

“Well, so be it. I will give orders immediately to 
prepare for the journey, but how shall we travel ?” 

“A vessel sails to-morrow morning for Athens ; em- 
bark upon it. I will give directions to the Captain ; he 
will land not far from the Turkish fort the guard will 
come on board ; the vessel carrying you will hoist a sig- 
nal flag, understood by the Turks, and you will pass 
without risk through the fleet of the enemy. After 
landing at Piraeus, your daughter can finish the rest of 
the journey in a litter.” 

“But, will the Captain of the vessel consent to under- 
take this expedition ?” 

“I will arrange all with him,” answered the pilgrim ; 
“he must, at all events, leave to-morrow. I know him 
well, for it was on his vessel that I arrived from Smyrna, 
and it is owing to me that he was enabled to pass the 
Turks.” 

“But will there not be a danger from the side of our 
own ships ?” 


50 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREJ^E. 


“No ! for you will carry the Grecian flag until you 
have left the harbor. Moreover, the vessel is destined 
for Venice, and is the hearer of important despatches 
from the Greek Government. Of this the Turks know 
nothing. Thus, you see, that there is naught to fear, 
neither on the side of the Greeks, nor on that of the 
Turks.” 

“As you say, then, to-morrow morning we will be in 
readiness. Can you not accompany us ?” 

“Not now, for important business detains me in Con- 
stantinople, but I will follow you in a few days.” 

“But, if the siege begins before that time, how will 
you leave the city ?” 

“My character of a pilgrim will insure respect on the 
part of the Greeks, while my credit with the Turks, 
will enable me to cross the lines.” 

“Holy Father, I dare say you are fatigued ; will you 
not retire to rest ?” 

“I must leave you awhile,” the pilgrim replied, “for 
my time is short, but I will return before midnight. I 
would, however, see your daughter ere I depart. Will 
you accompany me to her room ’ 

“With pleasure,” said Diogenes, as he led the way. 

Entering the room of Irene, they found her asleep. 
Suddenly startled in the midst of her slumbers, she ex- 
claimed : 

“Dimitrios, where art thou ?” 

The hermit shuddered. He felt the pulse of the girl, 
spoke reassuringly to her father, and both left the room. 

“Does she often speak while in a semi-conscious con- 
dition ?” asked the pilgrim. 

“Yes, and her thoughts always seem to revert to the 
same subject, her betrothed, namely, Dimitrios Phocas.” 


DIMITRIOS AKD IKEJ^E. 


51 


I Is the young lady to be married ? And to 
whom did you say ?” 

“She was engaged to one Dimitrios Phocas, but I have 
caused the engagement to be broken.” 

The eyes of the hermit sparkled with unwonted fire, 
which was not unnoticed by Diogenes, who asked : 

“Do you know Dimitrios Phocas ?” 

“I know not the young man in person, but I was well 
acquainted with his father, whom I met in Asia. On 
mv return to this city, I inquired concerning the family, 
but what I have heard is not reassuring. And you say 
that Dimitrios was betrothed to your beautiful daugh- 
ter ? Did you know the young man ?” 

“I believed him the very soul of honor, but, alas ! I 
have been cruelly undeceived. Have you heard aught 
in nis favor 

“Would that it were in my power to pour the balm of 
consolation upon your afflicted soul ! I fear, however, 
that I can say nothing that would raise Dimitrios in 
your esteem .” 

“Do you know anything in regard to him ?” 

“Your kindness towards me, a perfect stranger, and 
the interest I take in the welfare of your daughter, con- 
strain me to speak, though I would much prefer to ob- 
serve a charitable silence. But I must here sacrifice 
my inclination to the duty I owe you. I have been in- 
formed, from reliable sources, that Dimitrios has sunk 
very low. He frequents the most degraded resorts ; he 
is the friend of gamblers and low women, and, what is 
worse, he has agreed to marry the most infamous court- 
esan in the city, the degraded Leila. Did you know 
this?” 


52 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE. 


had heard as much. Oh, my daughter ! my poor 
daughter ! I fear this will kill her.” 

“Fear not, my good friend ; under the bright skies of 
Attica, your child will regain her strength ; she will 
learn to forget, and when she knows the true state of 
the matter, she will thank you for having delivered her 
from the clutches of the monster. Meanwhile, begin 
your preparations, for time is short. Farewell until 
morning.” 

Long before the sun arose over Constantinople, a 
small vessel had weighed anchor and steered for the 
passage between the inner harbor and the Bosphorus. 
It contained a crew of twenty-five men, who had their 
quarters in the forecastle, besides five officers and a Cap- 
tain, who had surrendered their berths in the after cabin 
to Diogenes, his daughter, Irene, and his son, Basil. 
The craft carried two small cannon at the bow, while 
the balls were kept in a box, fastened to the bulwarks. 
These balls were not of iron, but of stone. From her 
mizzen-top floated the Standard of Byzantium. 

At the moment when the vessel reached the entrance 
to the outer harbor, a youth might have been seen 
standing on the shore at the landing place, clad in the 
uniform of the Emperor’s Guards. His hands were 
folded before him, with the palms turned downward, 
wffiile his eyes anxiously followed the vessel through the 
gloom of the morning. Beside him stood the pilgrim, 
whom we yesterday met in the house of Diogenes. He 
seemed engaged in endeavoring to console the young 
man. Had you approached near enough, you might 
have overheard the following conversation : 

^‘Had I known where to find thee, my son, I might 


DIMITillOS Ai^D lEEKE. 


63 


have informed thee, and a reconciliation might have 
been effected.” 

Dimitrios moved not his eyes from the vessel, which 
receded further from him. He seemed riveted to the 
spot, and he felt that the dearest object to him in life, 
was being carried further away. He had lost all ambi- 
tion, and, for the moment, he cared not whether Con- 
stantinople stood or fell. One only star shone brightly 
above the darkness of his soul, the star of his faith ; he 
felt that even if he lost the creature, nothing could ever 
deprive him of the Creator, and, in proportion to the 
loneliness of his heart, his soul soared upward to a higher 
and a better life 

The pilgrim regarded him in silence, and repeated : 

“Had I but known where to find thee !” 

“Do you say that Irene believes me guilty ?” 

“I do ; it is unfortunately thus. I endeavored to con- 
vince her of thy innocence, assuring her that I had 
heard the most favorable reports concerning thee, but 
it was all in vain. She solemnly asserted that she would 
never lay eyes on thee again.” 

A tempest raged within the bosom of the young man. 
Love, despair, rage, revenge, mingled their loud cries 
within his agonized heart, casting their echoes altern- 
ately upon his beautiful face. Suddenly, as though im- 
pelled by some secret power, he darted from the side of 
the pilgrim. He was gone. 

The silent pillars of St. Sophia, that in ages past had 
been witness of so much virtue, so much suffering, 
and so much treachery, now alone heard the pent- 
up sighs that burst forth from the heart of Dimitrios 
Phocas. The morning breeze, wafted through the win- 


54 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


dows of the Temple, caught up his prayers and seemed 
to hear them to the Throne above. 

The sun cast its fair rays over the city ; the birds flew 
upward from the branches of the trees ; the little boats 
glided over the waters of the Golden Horn ; merry chil- 
dren played on the Augustaeum ; all nature seemed to 
rejoice; one heart was sad, for a gulf seemed to yawn 
between Dimitrios and Irene. 


CHAPTER VI. 


In a small house in one of the most remote quarters 
'Of Constantinople, sat a young woman. The appearance 
of the dwelling, though not wretched, was indicative of 
poverty, and the furniture seemed to have witnessed 
better days. Her costume was neglected, while her hair 
hung loose over her shoulders; but against the wall, a 
dress of costly material and most gaudy ornamentation 
was suspended. Her face was pale, while a smile on her 
lips seemed to denote an artful nature. Still there was 
something about this woman’s countenance which indi- 
cated that it had once known refinement, innocence and 
joy. She was unoccupied, staring into vacancy, with 
her head resting on her hand, while her elbow leaned on 
a table, when the door suddenly opened, and our pilgrim 
entered. The girl sprang up startled. The visitor saw 
her look of dismay, and exclaimed: 

‘‘Leila, dost thou not know me?” 

In a moment his hair and long beard lay on the floor 
and Mcolaus Lecapenos stood before her. She gave a 
shriek of surprise and fell back upon her chair. Nico- 
laus, seating himself spoke: 

“I have been ordered to return to Constantinople and 
remain here until the city falls. My life is in constant 
danger, but it cannot be otherwise. However, I must 
ask you a question. Do you know a Turk called Selim?” 

“I know a Turk! How could I know a Turk?” 

“But he knows you.” 


66 


DIMITEIOS AKD IREls^E. 


Turk knows me ! Nicolaus, you are dreaming.” 

‘^Most assuredly I am not. Come, tell me the truth, 
do you not know Selim ?” 

‘‘By all that is sacred, I never heard the man’s name.” 

“But he knows all that I have told you, concerning 
Dimi trios, and in regard to the Emperor and the Sultan. 
Have you no confidants, did you never mention my con- 
versation to others ?” 

Leila appeared embarrassed. After a moment’s re- 
flection, she replied: 

“Where did you tell me those things? Was it not in 
the Hippodrome ? Did I not beg you to be prudent and 
not raise your voice ? May you not have been over- 
heard ?” 

A sudden light seemed to flash before the eyes of 
Nicolaus. “Could it be possible ?” he exclaimed. 

“How is Dimitrios Phocas ?” said Leila, endeavoring 
to turn the conversation. 

“How Dimitrios is ? He is safe, and Irene is safe; she 
is far away by this time.” 

“Ear away, what do you mean ?” 

“She has left the city, and she is now on her way to 
Attica, as her father thinks. Ah ! I have caught the 
bird, thanks to you, Leila.” 

“Yes, thanks to me. Not content with having wrecked 
my life, you make me a tool for all your wicked plans. 
Nicolaus, you know that I was once innocent, I dreamt 
not of malice, but you have dragged me down into the 
low^est depths of degradation, ruining both body and 
soul. Gloat not, I pray you, over the tortures of your 
victim, let me go now, give me my liberty.” 

“Give you your liberty? As if I were the only one 
who held you captive.” 


DIMITRIOS AJs^D IREKE. 


57 


^^0, Nicolaus, this is cruel. I avow that I am wretched, 
wicked, if you like, hut remember that you are the first 
cause of it all.’’ 

‘‘Hush, insolent harlot, or — ” and he clutched at a 
dagger. 

Leila buried her face in her hands and wept. 

“Have you no pity, Nicolaus ?” she moaned. 

“None for such as you are,” he replied. 

She looked at him, and a mysterious fire darted from 
her eyes. He recoiled in terror. 

“Tigress,” he exclaimed, flashing his dagger before 
her eyes, “do you threaten me ?” 

“Strike, monster, strike ; death would he a thousand 
times preferable to such a life. I am an outcast ; the 
world which at heart is no better than myself, spurns 
me ; those whose toy I am, look on me with contempt. 
What have I to live for ?” 

“No, I will not strike, you are too useful to me, and 
when I no longer need you, there are more than enough 
Turks to whom I can sell you.” 

With a roar that frightened even Nicolaus, the infuri- 
ated woman, no longer recognizable, dashed at her per- 
secutor, she plunged her nails into his face, she would 
have torn him to pieces, but Nicolaus, holding her aloof 
with the left hand, raised the right, the dagger flashed, 
and, in another moment, it was buried in the bosom of 
the unfortunate woman. She fell, and, in falling, sne 
exclaimed : 

“Eighteous God, Thy justice has overtaken me, be 
Thou merciful to my soul !” 

The words died on her lips, the tongue that had 
uttered them was silent. Thus fell a young girl, who^ 
born in the bosom of refinement, and educated in inno- 


'58 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE. 


cence, had, in a weak moment, lent an ear to the words 
of the basilisk. She had gone from bad to worse, this 
was the end. 

Nicolaus, full of consternation at his work, for the 
whole had been effected almost before he had time to re- 
flect, hurried to the street, hoping to evade observation^ 
but, in his haste, he forgot that he was without his wig 
and beard. No sooner had he reached the street than 
he discovered his error ; he quickly turned on his heels, 
but, to his consternation, he fell into the arms of a man, 
who exclaimed: 

“Ah ! holy pilgrim, art thou here ? But what sudden 
change has come over thee ? Thou hast lost thy beard, 
and hast thou dyed thy hair ?” 

Nicolaus was speechless with terror. 

“Hast thou not a word for an old acquaintance asked 
Morosini, for it was he. 

“Let me go,” moaned Nicolaus. 

“Let thee go ? No, dear boy, one does not let game 
escape which throws itself so easily into the net. But 
what hast thou been doing in this house ?” 

Morosini dragged his unwilling captive toward the 
door. As he crossed the threshold, he stepped back, 
horror stricken. Leila’s corpse lay on the floor, in a 
pool of blood. 

“Monster,” he exclaimed, “vile monster, is this the 
end of thy victim ?” 

‘T could not help it,” stammered Nicolaus, “she would 
have killed me,” and, as he said these words, with a sud- 
den movement he reached for the dagger that lay on the 
floor. Morosini divined his intention, and, with a giant 
grasp, held him back, at the same time, drawing his 
sword. 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


69 


“Dare to move hand or foot, without my permission, 
wretch, and this blade shall divide thy accursed heart 
in twain.” 

The coward trembled. 

Vincent Morosini knelt beside the victim, he sought 
for signs of life, he endeavored to detect the slightest 
movement of the heart, but all in vain. He shook his 
head sadly. Life was extinct. “Traitor, murderer, 
fiend !” he exclaimed, as he cast a look of contempt and 
indignation upon Nicolaus. Then, his face assuming a 
softer expression, he said: 

“Poor girl! I knew her father and mother in Pera. 
They died broken-hearted. And this is the wreck, this 
is all that is left of the once beautiful and innocent 
Angela Ladrazzoni !” 


CHAPTEK VIL 


While the dreadful scene, described in our last chap- 
ter, was being enacted in the city of Constantinople, a 
small bark was struggling with the waves on the Sea of 
Marmora. It had experienced no difficulty in passing 
the Grecian fleet, and, by means of a signal flag, agreed 
upon between Mcolaus and the Turkish Pasha while 
the former was in the fort, it had, also, passed safely 
through the Turkish ships. After a short sail towards 
the north, in the direction of the Euxine or Black Sea, 
it had touched at the European shore of the Bosphorus,. 
where a guard of twelve men had come on board. Turn- 
ing towards the south, and setting all sail, it had then 
headed directly for the Propontis and the Hellespont, 
or Dardanelles. 

The Turks were most respectful in their conduct to- 
wards Irene and her father, but the former could not 
repress a feeling of horror that came over her as she 
looked upon the ferocious faces of the followers of Ma- 
homet, and she thought of the deeds of blood that had 
accompanied all their marches. 

His daughter was the object of the constant solici- 
tude of John Diogenes; he never left her side, and did 
all that a paternal heart might suggest to relieve her 
sufferings. In fine weather he w’ould conduct her to 
the ■ poop, and point out to her the various portions of 
the landscape he thought might be of interest to her. 
At the distance of a few leagues from the Bosphorus, 


DIMITRIOS AND lEENE. 


61 


tbey ^njcountered a storm, whicli caused their vessel to 
pitch and roll, while the waves washed over her deck. 
Both Basil and his father succumbed to sea-sickness, 
but Irene appeared not in the least affected. A deeper 
affliction weighed upon her. She was being carried far 
from home, in obedience to her father’s wishes, but 
against her own inclination. However, she murmured 
not, but bore her sorrow in silence. 

For nearly twenty -four hours they labored with the 
storm, but, as they reached the Dardanelles, the fury of 
the wind abated, and the weather grew calmer. Pass- 
ing through the narrow straits, they could see the land 
on both sides. On the left lay the coast of Asia Minor, 
while on the right they beheld the shores of Greece. It 
was in the early morning when they ran out into the 
Archipelago. The mariner’s needle had, most probably, 
for several centuries, been applied to navigation, and, 
though the vessel, on board which sailed the Diogenes 
family, possessed this instrument, yet, to avoid any pos- 
sible error, the Captain determined to sail along the 
southern shores of what is now known as Turkey. On 
the next morning they had reached the Gulf of Thes- 
salonica, and the Captain was about to turn his helm to 
starboard, in order to sail along the Grecian coast, to- 
wards Athens, when the Chieftain of the Turkish Guard 
advanced toward him, and, in a respectful tone, said : 

“Captain, will you oblige me by turning into the 
Gulf ?” 

“I cannot,” replied the Captain ; “my destination is 
Athens.” 

“You may go to Athens, but you must first proceed 
to Thessalonica ; after that we will offer no further hin- 
drance to your plans.” 


62 


DIMITRIOS IRENE. 


“By whose oraers do you thus command me ?” 

“By orders of the Pasha. 

“And, suppose 1 decline to obey 

“We will take charge of the ship ourselves.” 

“But, if we prevent you ?” 

“We shall use force.” 

“But wo are more numerous than you ; we are two to 
one.” 

“We shall see. I warn you. Captain, not to interfere 
with my orders, for, if you do, though you conquer us, 
your ship can never enter these waters again.” 

The Captain reflected. After a moment’s silence, he 
spoke : 

“And what calls you to Thessalonica ?” 

“All I can say is, that I have orders to proceed to 
Thessalonica.” 

The Captain of the vessel, without replying, ordered 
the helm reversed, and the ship swung around towards 
the Gulf. 

John Diogenes, advancing towards the Captain, en- 
quired ; 

“Captain, whither are we going ?” 

“To Thessalonica.” 

“I thought you were bound for Athens ?” 

“I am bound for Athens, but we must first put in at 
Thessalonica.” 

Diogenes made no reply, but a sense of uneasiness 
came over him. 

A few hours’ sailing up the Gulf, brought them in 
sight of the city. Basil now came on deck and ad- 
vanced toward his father, who was standing beside 
Irene, the latter apparently indifferent to all that was 
passing. 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


63 


“Father,” said the hoy, pointing to the city, the white 
houses of which could be distinctly seen, “is that 
Athens ?” 

“No, my son, not yet. That is Thessalonica.” 

“What are we going to do there ?” 

“I cannot say ; the Captain tells us that he must put 
in at this city, before proceeding to Athens.” 

They were fast approaching the city. . A Turkish 
vessel, sighting them, came alongside. The Turkish 
Chieftain exchanged a few words in his language with 
the commander of the newcomer, who, hereupon, fell 
astern, following the Greek. 

The former now proceeded to the Captain of the ves- 
sel and thus addressed him : 

“Captain, you have despatches for Venice ?’’ 

“I have not,” was the answer ; “you have been misin- 
formed.” 

“My information is correct. If you surrender the 
despatches, you may proceed; if not, we hold you pris- 
oners.” 

“I have no despatches,” said the Greek. 

“Then I cannot allow you to proceed until your per- 
sons, and every nook and corner of your vessel have 
been searched.” 

With these words, he withdrew to a distance. The 
Greek vessel now cast anchor. Two Turkish boats came 
alongside. The Captain of the Guard, bowing before 
Diogenes, said ; 

“I have orders to land you at Thessalonica.” 

“From whom ?” asked the Greek, in surprise. 

“From the Pasha.” 

A light began to dawn upon Diogenes. For some 
reason or other, he had been betrayed. Ee^istance, he 


64 


DIMITRIOS IREi?^E. 


felt, was utterly useless. His sole uneasiness arose from 
the contemplation of his daughter’s danger. At all 
events, he would quiet her fears, and cause her to be- 
lieve that he had come to Thessalonica from choice. If 
it came to the worst, he was determined to defend her 
life and honor to the bitter end. 

When everything was in readiness, the three Greeks 
left the vessel and entered one of the Turkish boats, 
which conveyed them to land, while the other boat fol- 
lowed with the guards. 

In the few years since its capture, Thessalonica had 
been changed into a Turkish city. Its churches had 
been converted into mosques ; its citizens were follow- 
ers of the Prophet of Mecca. Through the streets of 
this city our Grecian captives were conducted, until 
they reached a large mansion, which had, no doubt, 
once belonged to some aristocratic family, whose name 
had figured honorably on the annals of the Empire, but 
which, like most of the prominent edifices of the town, 
now possessed a Turkish owner. Into this dwelling Dioge- 
nes and his family were admittted ; they were told that 
it Would be at their disposal during their sojourn in the 
nity, but that they should never leave it without the 
Turkish escort that had come with them from the shores 
of the Bosphorus. Ho other information was vouch- 
safed. Who the owner of the house was, or for what 
purpose they had been brought thither, they could not 
discover. They were kept carefully isolated from every 
communication with Greeks, and were forced to adopt 
a Turkish costume. They had no society but that of 
one another, and they never exchanged words with any 
one except the commander, who was the only person 
near them who spoke Greek. They had servants, and 


DIMITRIOS AI^D IREKE. 


65 


Irene, her maid, but all these were persons whose lan- 
guage they could not understand. Whenever they left 
the house to enjoy the fresh air, Irene was forced to 
wear a veil, according to the fashion of the Turkish wo- 
men. For the rest, they were well -treated, and they had 
all they desired. Their slightest wish seemed a law 
for the Turkish Commander. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


After the capture of Hicolaus, he had been conveyed 
to a subterranean dungeon. He would have been put 
to death immediately, but it was supposed that he held 
important secrets, which might be of use to the Greeks. 
The place where he lay chained, seemed to him a por- 
tion of that eternal prison, where the soul undergoes 
everlasting torture for its wickedness on earth. Hot the 
faintest ray of light penetrated into that abode of per- 
petual gloom ; no starless night was ever like unto it in 
blackness. Silence reigned profoundly ; it was the si- 
lence of the tomb. Its walls that, for centuries, had 
been buried in the bosom of the earth, served as the 
foundation for an enormous tower, one of five that 
formed the Pentapyrgion, a prison for political of- 
fenders. Constantinople might fall to pieces with a 
sudden crash ; no echo of the noise would reach the 
unfortunate inmate of that abode of death. There lay 
Hicolaus Lecapenos, the traitor to his Country and his 
God. While far from all that might distract, his mind 
vividly reverted to the past. He beheld, in the anguish 
of his soul, the mother who had endeavored to instil 
into his heart the seed of virtue, but whose wise coun- 
sels he had despised. There arose before him, one by 
one, the friends, in whose company he had begun to 
walk upon that road which finally led him to the un- 
fortunate condition in which he now found himself. 
He saw so distinctly the day on which he first met An- 


DIMITKIOS AKD IREJ^E. 


67 


gela Ladrazzoni. She was then so young, so beautiful, 
and so innocent. Her guileless heart was beguiled by 
his deceitful tongue ; he dragged her down to the low- 
est depths of misery. He saw Dimi trios and Irene ; he 
remembered the fatal passion that had taken possession 
of him, which, a spark in the beginning, had become a 
mighty conflagration. He recalled to mind his treach- 
ery ; he shranic back in terror from himself. A voice 
whispered, in the depths of his heart: “Nicolaus, re- 
turn • raise thy heart, pray ; it is never too late.” An- 
other spoke r “Too late, Nicolaus; too late forever. 
Thou hast forsaken God ; thou hast followed Mahomet ; 
let Mahomet help thee now.” Suddenly, he shrieked, 
with a cry that seemed to pierce the very walls of his 
dungeon : “Oh, God 1 what is that ? I see her,” and he 
shrank back as far as he could into a corner of his 
prison. “She approaches ; she is covered with blood ; 
her eyes flash vengeance ; her arm is uplifted to strike. 
Help ! Mercy I Leila, pardon ; spare me !” There was 
a heavy fall upon the ground ; all was again silent as. 
the tomb. Nicolaus had lost consciousness. 

When he returned to his senses, the light was shining 
upon him ; he lay on a couch in a small cell, the barred 
window of which admitted a few scanty rays of that be- 
nignant, though mysterious, force of nature, without 
which, life would become extinct upon the face of the 
earth. As Nicolaus opened his eyes, he looked bewil- 
dered around him ; he knew not where he was. Had 
he exchanged one life for another, or was he still in the 
realm of mortality ? Beside him stood a soldier. Nic- 
olaus gazed upon him ; his eyes met a countenance that 
he had seen somewhere he could not recall. Suddenly 


68 


DIMITRIOS Ai^D IREJS'E. 


he turned and buried his face in the pillow ; he had 
recognized the one who stood gazing at him. 

‘‘Dimitrios !” he moaned. 

am Dimitries, Nicolaus/' the other replied. “I 
am here, not as an enemy, but to forgive. Kemember- 
ing the example of our common Master, I am here to 
pardon — my bitterest enemy." 

‘‘My God ! can it be possible ?” 

“Yes, it is possible. I pardon all, if thou wilt repent." 

“EepentI How can there be repentance without 
mercy, and how can there be mercy for me ?" 

“There is mercy. Am I not merciful ? and think 
you that God is less merciful than I ?" 

Nicolaus was silent. Dimi trios added : 

“Pray ; knock at the door of mercy. Will you prom- 
ise me to pray ?" 

“I will endeavor." 

Some days had passed since the scene we have just 
related. 

The shock received by the nervous system of Nico- 
laus, had been so great, that he still lay prostrated in 
the cell where we left him. However, he was recov- 
ering. 

He appeared much calmer, though from time to time 
a dark shadow would flit across his brow. Occasion- 
ally his lips seemed to move in prayer. 

Dimitries entered the room. Approaching the bed- 
side of Nicolaus, he sat down. Taking the sick man's 
hand in his own, he said : 

“Nicolaus, you are feeling better Lo-day ; I think we 
may converse seriously. You have assured me, of your 
own accord, that you relinquish all claim to Irene. You 
also promised me that you would ofer an explanation 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREXE. 


69 


which would clear up the mystery of the last feAv days. 
Will you now fulfil your promise ? 

‘‘Ah ! my good friend,” replied the sick man, “it is a 
hitter tale, but be it told to my own greater shame. 
You have now learned of my intimacy with the unfor- 
tunate Leila. When I conceived that fatal passion for 
Irene, I determined to ruin you, and to make Leila my 
tool. In order better to succeed, I made use of a third 
person. Michael Dorcas is a most intimate friend of 
John Diogenes; he is at present abroad, I believe. I 
caused him to meet Leila, as it were, accidentally. Obe- 
dient to my commands, she swore to him that she was 
affianced to you. Out of interest in his friend, he 
communicated this intelligence to him. This was the 
beginning of your sorrows. For more than two years I 
have been in secret communication with the Turks. 
On my last visit to Adrianople, Sultan Mohammed com- 
manded me to return hither in disguise. In that dis- 
guise you have seen me. It was my pilgrim’s garb that 
gained me admittance into the house of Diogenes. 
While at the Turkish fort, on the Bosphorus, I con- 
cocted the iniquitous plan that took Irene away. I de- 
termined to have her removed from Constantinople, and, 
by bribery, I gained over the Turkish Pasha to my cause. 
When I arrived in the city, everything worked even bet- 
ter than I had expected. I found Irene sick. I pre- 
tended to be a physician, and persuaded her father to 
remove her to the salubrious climate of Attica. To the 
Captain of a Greek vessel, with whom I was acquainted, 
I gave money to convey the family to Attica. Traitor, 
as ever, I discovered that the Captain carried despatches 
for the Doge of Venice, and this I found means to com- 
municate to the Turks.” 


70 


DIMITRIOS IREiTE. 


‘‘But where is Irene asked Dimitries, with impa- 
tience. 

“Listen. The captain left Constantinople under the 
impression that he was bound for Athens. He was in- 
structed to stop near the Turkish fort to take on board 
a detachment of soldiers who were to act ostensibly as 
the guard of Irene’s family.” 

Dimitrios grew pale. Nicolaus continued : 

“The soldiers had orders to allow the vessel to pro- 
ceed no further than Thessalonica. Here they were to 
land the passengers.” 

“Great Heavens! Is Irene in the hands of the Turks ? 
Oh, Nicolaus, it is monstrous — ” 

“Pardon me, my friend, did you not say that you for- 
gave me all? It was wicked, cruel, barbarous, I hate 
myself for it, but be not alarmed.” 

Dimitrios buried his face in his hands and sobbed. 
“Continue,” he moaned. 

Nicolaus went on : 

“On their arrival at Thessalonica, the soldiers had 
orders to conduct them to a mansion belonging to my 
friend, the Pasha ; there they were to await me, and, 
meanwhile, to be treated with the greatest respect.” 

“And they are now in Thessalonica, and where ?” 

“Opposite the Church of the Twelve Apostles.” 

“I will go to them, I will save Irene.” 

“It would be rashness now.” 

“What then can we do ?” 

“I alone can save them. Had I my liberty! but, alas! 
I am condemned to die.” 

“What would you do ?” 

“After Constantinople falls, as it surely will, I would 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 71 

go to Tliessalonica, give them their freedom and return 
them to you/’ 

‘‘Can it not he done now?” 

“Impossible. And besides, they are perfectly safe in 
Thessalonica, under the protection of the Pasha, while 
here they would be in the greatest danger.” 

“And if you die ?” 

“They will remain in the hands of the Turks.” 

“Nicolaus, did I expect no benefit from thee, even 
then would I endeavor to obtain thy life, but now a 
double motive impels me. Farewell !” 

Dimitrios arose and departed. 

The reader will easily surmise, that Nicolaus, having 
been found unconscious in his subterranean dungeon, 
had been transferred to a more agreeable prison, princi- 
pally through the instrumentality of Dimitrios. The 
Emperor admired the youth’s forgiving spirit, but he 
believed that justice should take its course, and he 
therefore refused to commute the sentence which con- 
demned the traitor and murderer to death. The plead- 
ings of Dimitrios had been in vain. 

A half hour after the conversation with Nicolaus, 
Dimitrios had begged for an audience with the Emperor, 
to whose presence he was frequently admitted, not only 
by reason of the nobility of his birth, but, also, on ac- 
count of the Monarch’s affection toward him. On this 
occasion, however, he had long to wait. Finally the 
bearer of an imperial message approached him with a 
summons to the presence of his Majesty, into whose 
private apartments he was conducted. As he entered 
the room, the Emperor looked up, and Dimitrios noticed 
for the first time an expression of impatience on the 
Sovereign’s face. The youth knelt before him, and the 


72 


DIMITKIOS AND IBENE. 


Emperor, contrary to his custom, did not bid him rise* 
This appeared ominous to Dimitrios. Constantine thus 
addressed him : 

‘‘Dimitros, hast thou again come to disturb me in 
connection with that unfortunate renegade ? Knowest 
thou not that weighty affairs of the Empire occupy all 
my attention P’’ 

“Pardon me, your Majesty,” Dimitrios replied, “if I 
have the boldness to intrude and encroach upon your 
valuable time, but I would now implore your clemency 
on my own behalf as well as that of a family most de- 
voted to your interests and those of the Empire.” 

The Emperor’s face assumed a softer expression, while 
a look of surprise overcast it as he enquired: 

“What is it thou hast at heart, my son; hast thou 
transgressed a law, or hast thou been guilty of a breach 
of military discipline ?” 

“Neither, your Majesty, but my own happiness and 
that of persons most dear to me are in the hands of 
Nicolaus Lecapenos. His death will be the death stroke 
to that happiness.” 

The Emperor frowned. 

“Explain thyself,” he said. 

Dimitrios in a few words related the occurrences of 
the past few days. The Emperor looked serious, per- 
plexed, even sad. He shook his head as though an un- 
pleasant duty lay before him. 

“Dimitrios,” he said, “what thou askest of me, may 
at first sight seem reasonable to thee. Gladly would I 
grant thy request, but reflect. There is here a question 
of the common good. The man whose life thou beggest 
me to spare, is a public malefactor. Had I alone been the 
victim of his crime, I would not hesitate an instant in 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREi^E. 


73 


exercising mercy, but he has shown himself an enemy 
of the Empire, yea, of society at large. My honor, the 
State, the people, eternal justice itself clamor loudly for 
his execution. Would I not be unfaithful to my trust, 
were I to let him live ? Would it not be like harboring a 
venomous reptile who might give death to those w^ho 
save its life 

Dimitrios seemed crestfallen, the Emperor gazed at 
him with pity. 

‘‘Be brave,” he spoke, “trust lovingly in Providence. 
I will reflect ; if there is any possibility of saving the 
life of Nicolaus Lecapenos, thy request shall be granted. 
I will send thee word to thy dwelling before the hour 
of nine tomorrow ; meanwhile, fare thee well !” 

Dimitrios thanked the Sovereign, and, bowing pro- 
foundly before him, departed. 

Leaving the Palace, he directed his steps toward the 
Augustaeum. For a long time he paced up and down, 
lost in reflection, and observing not that at a few paces 
distance, a stranger of rude appearance was intently 
gazing upon him. Suddenly he turned toward the 
Hippodrome, and the words of Diogenes seemed to ring in 
his ears : “On the twenty-fifth of next month, meet me 
at the Hippodrome.” 

“Where are they now ?” he muttered. “Oh ! Irene, 
Irene, had I wings, how gladly would I fly to thy as- 
sistance !” 

These words had been uttered sufficiently loud to be 
understood by the stranger, on whose face, in spite of 
its stern and even cruel features, a look of deep com- 
passion seemed to settle. 

With a sigh, Dimitrios turned away toward the Church 
of St. Sophia. There at least he expected to find balm for 
his afflicted heart. Human aid had failed him, he would 
seek the Divine. 


CHAPTEK IX. 


The execution of Nicolaus had been set for 10 o’clock 
of the day after the audience granted by the emperor to 
Dimitrios. The latter had visited the unfortunate pris- 
oner to reconcile him, if possible, to his impending fate. 
He had found him resigned, though apparently down- 
cast. Although our young Greek had lost all hope, still 
he endeavored to cheer the unfortunate man, by repeat- 
ing to him the Emperor’s promise to spare his life, if 
possible. 

“Had I been able to communicate to them secrets 
which they supposed I had learned among the Turks, 
my life might have been spared, but I could give them 
no information ; all I knew was the mission imposed 
upon me by the Sultan, and it is this very mission which 
becomes the principal reason for my execution, and which 
renders me dangerous to the 5]mperor.” 

Thus spoke the condemned man. In spite of the aw- 
ful fate that awaited him, there was a lightness in his 
voice and a quickness in his eye which contrasted ill 
with his surroundings and the solemnity of the moment. 

“Nicolaus, are you not afraid to die ?” asked Dimitrios. 

“Afraid to die ? Not in the least. What is there to 
live for ?” 

As he pronounced these words, an image flashed be- 
fore his mind ; he seemed to behold Leila, as she stood 
before him in that fatal hour which was her last. Again 


DIMITlilOS A^TD IREI^E. 75 

he heard her voice, as she exclaimed : “What have I to 
live for ?” 

His countenance paled, he shuddered, his emotion 
seemed to give the lie to his words, but, regaining his 
self-control, he added: 

“The only reason why I hope for life, the only motive 
why I cling to it, even though the black clouds of de- 
spair are fast rolling over me, is the earnest wish to give 
back Irene to you. I know that my death will separate 
her from you for ever.” 

0, God !” exclaimed Dimitrios, “is there no ray of 
hope to break the darkness of this night ?” 

All was darkness in his soul, life seemed a blank, 
happiness appeared to have departed out of it forever, 
.and yet the star of faith was shining still, for Dimitrios 
was a firm believer in the governing hand of a wise 
Providence, without whose permission not a sparrow 
falls to the ground. Had this faith deserted him, he 
would have sunk down into the abyss of despair, his life 
would have become utterly wretched, but he believed, 
.and his faith sustained him, it gave him hope, it made 
him feel that he would meet Irene again, if not in this 
world, then surely in a better one where pains and sor- 
row cease. It was his faith which, in all his woes, 
•caused him to seek refuge in prayer, and which had 
rendered the Temple of St. Sophia so familiar to him. 
•Grasping the hand of Mcolaus, he said : 

“My good friend, all is not lost yet. I trust that the 
Emperor will be moved, he is naturally merciful, and I 
know that he loves me. Therefore, let us hope even in 
the midst of our darkness. I leave you now, but I feel 
. that we shall meet again. I sincerely congratulate you 
<on your return to God. The good priest who has shown 


76 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREJ^E. 


himself so kind to you, will visit you again to-morrow 
morning, endeavor to persevere in your good disposi- 
tions.” 

A tear glistened in his eye, as he pressed the hand of 
the doomed man, and, with a heavy heart, he departed 
from the cell, gently closing the door behind him. Lost 
in sad reflections, he pursued his way until he reached 
the portal of his own home. 

In one of the aristocratic quarters of the City of Con- 
stantine, stood a venerable mansion which had long been 
the dwelling of the ancestors of Dimitrios and Helena,, 
who were the only survivors of the family. It was night 
when young Phocas passed through the arched doorway 
of his ancestral mansion. Going through a spacious 
courtyard, he entered a magnificently furnished room 
where a light was burning. On a rich couch, or lounge, 
as we might call it in our days, reclined the figure of a 
young girl. She had fallen asleep, hut, as the footsteps 
of Dimitrios resounded on the tesselated pavement, she 
suddenly started from her gentle slumber. A gracious 
smile played upon her lips, as she welcomed the youth. 

‘‘Dimitrios,” she spoke, “you have tarried long. I 
awaited with impatience your return, until, overcome 
with fatigue, my drooping eyelids refused to perform 
the nocturnal service I had demanded of them. But you 
appear sad, unusually depressed. Alas ! I read upon 
your countenance that you have no favorable communi- 
cation to make to me. Have you seen the Emperor ?” 

Dimitrios, seated beside his sister, related to her the 
events of the day, and closing his discourse, added : 

“Still, I hope against hope, and put my trust in God, 
and He will not cause me to he tried above my strength.” 

With these words he arose and parted from Helena 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


77 


for the night, both going to their respective apartments. 
The sister of Dimitrios Phocas was a tall girl, about 
three years his junior. Since the death of their mother, 
he had been to her more than a brother, he had taken 
the place of a father. She clung to him with all the 
ardor of her Southern heart, and looked up to him as to 
her only protector. His joys were hers, and she shared 
all his sorrows ; there was not a pulsation of the heart 
of Dimitrios which did not find its echo in that of 
Helena. During the past few days he had communi- 
cated to her his afflictions, his fears and his hopes, and 
the only true consolation he derived outside of the super- 
natural strength which came to him from on High, he 
found in her society. She was as much like him in her 
character and in the noble aspirations of her soul, as 
she was in her features. In a word, for years she had 
been living his life, seeing with his eyes, hearing with 
his ears, thinking his thoughts, and feeling with his 
heart. Until now, no sorrow had ever darkened her 
path, and she had lived in blissful ignorance of that 
which bears the name of grief. She had been happy, 
because she saw Dimitrios happy, she loved Irene be- 
cause Dimitrios loved her, for hers was not a jealous na- 
ture, and she willingly shared her brother’s affection 
with one whom she looked upon as a sister. The first 
sorrow of her life had now cast its shadow over her 
young heart, and that sorrow was the same that wrapped 
the soul of Dimitrios in gloom. She retired to rest that 
night with an aching heart, f cr she knew that her brother 
was suffering and she could do nothing to alleviate his 
pain. Intense anxiety for the fate of Irene, dread and 
uncertainty, and the horrible fear that Nicolaus would 
be executed kept her awake for the rest of the night. 


78 


DIMITEIOS AI^D IKEKE. 


Slowly the hours dragged along, the night had never 
seemed so interminable. Thus far, she had never known 
what sleeplessness was, but now she sought in vain for 
that refreshing gift of nature which is always welcome 
to the sufferer and the w^eary, but it came not. 

Dimitrios, too, tossed restlessly upon his couch. With 
longing, and yet with fear, he awaited the dawn of that 
day which was to decide his fate, and when Aurora be- 
gan to gild the eastern sky, and the first glimmering of 
the new-born day appeared within his room, his heart 
beat rapidly, as though the sentence of death were to be 
executed upon himself. Fatigued, he arose from his 
couch. His first thoughts ascended to the Author of 
life, and, casting himself upon his knees, he spent some 
time in silent prayer. Arising, he left the apartment 
and went out to the inner court. How delicious was the 
morning ! The fresh breeze from the harbor wafted the 
perfume of many fiowers upon the fragrant air, the light 
spray of the fountain sprinkled the face of Dimitrios, 
w^ho had seated himself beside it, while a captive bird 
raised its melodious voice to greet the advent of another 
day. All seemed so out of harmony with the soul of 
the young man, where night still reigned and no ray had 
yet announced the advent of a joyous morning. Nature 
appeared to sport with his sorrows. 

The Emperor had promised to send him word to His 
dwelling, hence Dimitrios decided not to leave his house 
until all hope had entirely vanished. Helena had also 
come out to seek refreshment in the cool air of the 
morning, and she now sat beside her brother. Tney 
were silent, for no words seemed adequate to convey their 
emotions, which were better felt than expressed. THe 
hours had passed slowly, and the warm rays of the sun. 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


7a 


forced the youthful pair to withdraw into the house.. 
Dimitrios was evidently in a state of agitation, and he 
paced to and fro, occasionally stopping to listen, as a 
distant sound broke upon his ear. Helena respected the 
deep sorrow of her brother, and spoke not, though the 
look she occasionally cast upon him, betokened her 
anxiety. 

The hours passed, and yet no word from the Emperor. 
The shadow on the dial indicated that in another half 
hour the moment of the execution would have arrived. 
The heart of Dimitrios beat almost audibly, every mo- 
ment he would stand and listen. Silence itself had now 
become unbearable, his agitated thoughts sought vent. 
Turning to Helena, he exclaimed : 

“My dear sister, I fear the worst. If there had been 
a favorable decision, I would have heard of it ere now. 
Only a few minutes more, and all will be over.” 

“Lose not hope, dear brother, perhaps the Emperor 
may have delayed the execution in order to gain time for 
reflection. It appears to me that the very fact of your 
receiving no tidings is good news, it shows that, thus 
far, nothing has transpired.” 

“On the contrary, Helena, I will not receive informa- 
tion if the execution takes place. The Emperor wishes 
to spare himself all further importunities, and, when the 
head of Mcolaus shall have fallen, he will endeavor to 
console me. Alas ! poor, unfortunate man, is this the 
end of one whom I once supposed to be my friend ! Do 
we not behold clearly that the wages of sin is death ? 
But I have now no time to moralize, every nerve in my 
body trembles, my heart appears as if ready to burst out 
ot my breast, my blood is on fire. 0 ! Helena ; Helena ! 
suspense is worse than death. Suspense, do I say ? Ko, 


80 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


there is no longer suspense, but certainty, dreadful, in- 
exorable certainty stares me in the face. The hour is 
passed, behold the shadow moves onward in its course. 
Alas ! Nicolaus Lecapenos is no more ! His soul has 
passed through the dark valley of the shadows of death, 
it has heard its sentence. And thou, Irene, the light of 
my life, yea, my life itself, thou art lost to me, lost for- 
ever. The coldness of the grave benumbs me, its shadow 
is cast over me, why should I live ? 0, Constantine, 

Constantine, thou last scion of the house of Paleologos! 
is this thy affection ? Where are thy words of esteem ? 
Scattered by the wind of thy actions. Where is my love 
for thee ? Dashed to pieces against the rocks of a stern 
reality. 0 ! what cruel destiny is mine ! My God ! my 
God ! strengthen me lest I sink forever in this shoreless 
and unfathomable ocean of dire anguish. Lord, Lord, 
save me, for I perish !” 

A violent storm had burst. Dimitrios fell exhausted 
upon a couch, he buried his face in a cushion, the strong 
man sobbed aloud, his frame shook violently. 

‘^Brother, brother,” exclaimed Helena, alarmed, run- 
ning towards Dimitrios and throwing her arms around 
him. “Brother, calm your emotion, do not give your- 
self thus over to your feelings. Be brave, have you thus 
entirely succumbed to weakness ?” 

“Pardon, my sister, my too long pent up feelings need 
vent.” 

“Hark, Dimitrios, I hear footsteps.” 

The young man started up and ran towards the door. 
On the threshold he was met by a member of the Im- 
perial Guards, who, in few words, informed him that 
his presence was desired at the Palace. Hastily taking 
leave of his sister, and carelessly throwing his mantle 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREKE. 


81 


over his shoulders, he hurried to the street, and, almost 
running, he directed his course toward the enclosure, 
where the Palace stood. 

On appearing before the Emperor, he noticed tnat 
there was a look of disappointment and displeasure upon 
his countenance. On bidding Dimitrios arise, he spOKe: 

“My son, we have once more been deceived in xVico- 
laus.” 

“Is Nicolaus still alive. Sire 

“He is, my dear boy, but he ought not to be.” 

Dimitrios gazed in mute astonishment. The Emperor 
continued : 

“After long and painful reflection, and a formidable 
'struggle between justice and mercy, I finally decided 
that the victory should belong to the latter.” 

Dimitrios breathed more freely. 

“Imagine my consternation when I learned that this 
morning the cell of the prisoner was found vacant; the 
door had been left open, and both Nicolaus and his 
jailer had disappeared. Search was made for them in 
all directions, but it has proved useless. The traitor has 
escaped.” 

“It is a mystery, your Majesty, a mystery which may 
be cleared up in time.” 

“Dimitrios, if you assist in solving the mystery, I will 
be your debtor. Morosini will lend you all assistance. 
As for those who are dear to you, I will endeavor to ma- 
ture some plan for their deliverance. Meanwhile be of 
good cheer. You may now depart.” 

Dimitrios left the presence of his Imperial Majesty 
with a lighter heart than when he had entered the Pal- 
ace. He felt relieved now that he knew that Nicolaur 


82 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE, 


•was still alive. He could not suspect him of treachery. 
He had escaped merely to save his own life and to rescue 
Irene. Even now he was, perhaps, on his way to Thes- 
salonica to save Diogenes and his children. The guile- 
less youth had not yet learned to fathom the almost un- 
fath^^mable depths of a hypocrite’s heart 


CHAPTER X. 


‘‘You have had a most narrow escape, Nicolaus,” 
said a cut-throat kind of a man, seated in a small house 
situated in one of the many tortuous streets of the city. 
Observe him attentivelv, and you will recognize the in- 
dividual who stood gazing at Dimitrios on the Augus- 
taeum, on the evening of his disappointing audience with 
the Emperur. Opposite him sat a person whom no power on 
earth could have recognized as Nicolaus Lecapenos. He 
was clad in the garb of the lowest classes of the popula- 
tion, while his unkempt hair and beard, both of an almost 
fiery red, seemed to indicate that he was a descendant of 
the Germanic nations of the North. His brow was fur- 
rowed, while his nose and cheeks resembled three glow- 
ing coals. 

“You speak the truth this time, Fortuny,” replied 
Nicolaus, “for, the first time in your life, your Catalan 
tongue has not told a lie.” 

Fortuny, brandishing a large knife of Toledo work- 
manship, retorted: 

“Did I not know you were jesting, Nicolaus, this blade 
would quench its thirst in your blood, and you would 
find that it is less easy to escape from a son of Catalonia 
than from Constantine Paleologos ; but, leave all jokes 
aside, and relate to me the manner of your escape. First^ 
however, take a good draught out of this skin. It con- 
tains an excellent red wine, made in Castile. I obtained 
it not long since on board a vessel from Barcelona.” 


84 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREJS'E. 


Hereupon, Fortuny handed the goat-skin to Nicolaus, 
who, after a copious draught, returned it to the owner, 
the latter glueing his lips to the mouth of the vessel 
and imbibing freely, as he said, in honor of the escape 
of the Greek. 

‘‘Now, old friend,” he added, “begin your story.” 

“You must know,” said Nicolaus, “that the brutes 
threw me into a black hole, under one of the five towers 
of the Pentapyrgion. I thought my time had come, 
and that I was about to be left there as food for the 
rats. By all the gods of Olympus, if there is a place 
on earth resembling hell, it is that dungeon. I assure 
you that, when a man is left all to himself in a Tar- 
tarean vault like that, he sees strange sights. Balls of 
fire seemed to dance before my eyes ; phantasmata of 
the^imagination became realities. What happened after 
that I cannot tell, for I must have fainted. The next 
thing I knew was, that I lay on a couch in a cell, and, 
who do you think was bending over me? Eeally, it 
seems like a dream. Dimi trios Phocas was there. No- 
ble youth I I hated him once, but it is impossible to do 
so longer. He forgave me all, he said. He exerted 
himself to the utmost to save my life. Now, Fortuny, 
I am a bad man, but bad as I am, I cannot longer hate 
Dimitrios. It is true, I deceived him. I made him be- 
lieve that I was repentant, but, notwithstanding this, I 
esteem him now, and will do for him all that I can, but 
one thing — I cannot give up Irene. To come to the point : 
Constantine was inexorable, and it is fortunate that he 
was, or I would not be here. He fiattered Dimitrios 
with vain hopes, but, as sure as you are alive, I would, 
ere this, have crossed the Styx, had not fortune favored 
me. My jailer happened to be an enemy of the house 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


85 


of Paleologos ; I soon discovered this. Moreover, I 
found out that there was one idol the fellow worshiped 
with all the intensity of his heart — gold. For the glit- 
tering metal he would, at any time, be willing to sell his 
soul. I put a handful of gold pieces into his hand. I 
promised that, after the fall of the city, I would make 
his fortune. The old fool’s head was turned ; the gold 
dazzled him. He obtained for me a disguise : a suit of 
clothes belongingv to one of the workmen of the prison. 
In the middle of the night I left my cell. Knowing the 
entire place, he conducted me to an exit where, fortu- 
nately for us, the guard had fallen asleep. My jailer, 
who was a boon companion to many of the soldiers, had, 
beforehand, taken the precaution to dose, with an in- 
toxicating beverage, the poor fellow, whom he knew 
would be on duty on this spot, and at this hour. The 
potion worked admirably. To these fortunate circum- 
stances I owe my escape. I have placed my jailer in 
safety, where he may remain concealed until after the 
city capitulates, or it is taken.” 

‘‘And now, Mcolaus, what are your plans ?” 

“Plans ? Well, I know them not myself. Have I not 
the Sultan’s orders to remain in Constantinople until it 
is captured ?” 

“Do you intend to abide by these orders ?” 

“What else can I do ?” 

“But your life is in danger.” 

“I am aware of the fact ; but you see, old man, I am 
now between Scylla and Charybdis. At all events, I 
want you to help me in a matter of great importance. 
Here is your reward.” 

Kicolaus held a small bag of gold coins before the 
greedy eyes of the Catalan. 


86 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


“You know that John Diogenes and his family are 
held in custody at Thessalonica. I am uneasy concern- 
ing them, for it has been impossible for me to receive 
any news of their condition. I wish you to go thither, 
for you have more than enough opportunities at your 
disposal, find out how they fare, and report to me.” 

“Give me the gold first.” 

“No 1 No ! That, would never do. You know I do 
not pay in advance. Fulfil your mission, and this gold 
is yours.” 

The Spaniard hesitated. The journey was tedious, and 
not without danger ; on the other hand, an opportunity 
to gain such a sum of money was not to be lost. 

“Will you agree ?” asked Nicolaus. 

Fortuny made no reply. 

“Well, if you will not, I know others who would be 
well pleased with half this sum. Farewell !” 

Nicolaus arose, as if about to depart. 

“Hold !” cried the Catalan, “when do you wish me to 
start ?” 

“This very night.” 

“The time is short.” 

“Yes ; but the affair is urgent.” 

“Well, Nicolaus, you may rely on me. I will leave 
to-night by a vessel, the owner of which is my friend. 
Without delay, I will return.” 

“Well said, but, ere you depart, I must ask some in- 
formation of you. What news is there of the Sultan’s 
movements ? Has he left Adrianople ?” 

“I have some wonderful news. The army and the 
fleet are fast encirling the doomed city, and the Sultan 
has placed himself at the head of his troops. The Bos- 
phorus is filled with Turkish ships. You remember 


DIMITRIOS A^D IREKE. 


87 


that immense brass cannon that was cast at Adrianople ? 
It is calculated that it will throw a stone of six hun- 
dred pounds’ weight. Well, two months ago, it started 
on its journey for Constantinople, and only a few days 
since it arrived at the army, amid the acclamations of 
the multitude. In a day or two, I have no doubt, it 
will be placed in position, ready to belch forth death 
and destruction over this unfortunate city. The strength 
of the Turkish forces is of three hundred thousand men, 
against which the handful of Greeks and Genoese that 
Constantine commands, can avail nothing.” 

‘‘So we may expect the siege to begin at any moment ?” 

“Yes, at any moment.” 

“Well, Fortuny, in a few days I hope we shall meet 
again. I will rely on your prudence and intrepidity. 
Farewell.” 

Mcolaus now arose, pressed the hand of the Catalan, 
and departed. 

A few hours later, Fortuny had left the city. 

Meanwhile neither the Emperor, Dimitrios, nor Mor- 
osini, were enabled to form any conjectures concerning 
the whereabouts of Mcolaus. The Emperor had, after 
his interview with Dimitrios, returned to the Palace of 
Blachernae, in the suburb of that name, which, since 
the twelfth century, had gradually superseded the old 
Palace as an imperial residence. However, the latter 
had not been entirely abandoned, and it was within its 
walls that Dimitrios had conversed with his sovereign 
on the occasions mentioned in the preceding chapters. 

On the morning after the departure of Fortuny, Mor- 
osini and Dimitrios met accidentally on the Mese, or 
Middle street, in one of the emboli, or arcades, which 
lined it on the sides. 


88 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


dear boy,” said Morosini, with a serious coun- 
tenance, “are you ready ? You will soon hear the call 
to arms. The Turkish army may he seen from the tow- 
ers. Multitudes cover the land on all sides. The gates 
in the Theodosian walls have all been closed, and the 
bridges over the ditch which connect them with the 
country roads, have been taken down, so that Constan- 
tinople is now cut off from communication with the 
outer world, and it must depend upon itself. Do you 
hear that? It is the sound of the bugle, calling on 
every defender of the city to join his regiment. The 
Emperor is at Blachernae, but you may be sure that 
he will be everywhere, for Constantine is a brave Prince. 
Keturn to the Choice, where your quarters are, for you 
will be needed. Be a brave man, Dimitries, and re- 
member, that you are the descendant of an Emperor,, 
and a hero, the courageous old Nicephorus Phocas. 
You may not save the Empire, but, at least, the honor 
of defending it is yours. But, tell me, where is Helena T’ 

“My poor Helena!” sighed Dimitrios, “she is at home. 
She fears much for my safety, and her alarm nearly dis- 
tracts her. Morosini, my friend, if I should fall, will 
you be a protector to my sister ?” 

“Dimitrios, I swear to you, that as long as there is 
life in Vincent Morosini, as long as his heart beats, as 
long as one drop of blood courses through his veins, no 
harm shall come to Helena ; do you believe me ?” 

“Ah I my dear, good, noble friend, it is so much like 
yourself. Thanks, a thousand thanks !” 

Dimitrios pressed warmly the hand of his friend. 

“How, Dimitrios,” said Morosini, “I must leave you,, 
but we shall frequently be together. The city may be 
in the possession of the Greeks only for a short time 


DIMITEIOS AND lEENE. 


89 


longer. At the first opportunity we shall procure horses, 
and ride through Constantinople, to study its streets 
and fortifications, and thus to bid it a last farewell. I 
will meet you soon again.’’ 

The two friends parted, the former going to the quar- 
ters of the Emperor’s Guards, and the latter towards 
the Golden Horn. 

When, on the morrow, the sun arose over Constanti- 
nople, it was to cast its rays upon the Turkish army en- 
camped outside of the walls. The instruments of me- 
diaeval warfare mingled with those of modern times,, 
which were still in a rude condition. Huge towers and 
battering rams arose at intervals in the enemy’s encamp- 
ment, w^hile catapults stood ready to hurl deadly mis- 
siles into the city. Instruments such as these had fre- 
quently been tried upon the walls of impregnable Con- 
stantinople, though unsuccessfully, but Mahomet had 
other offensive weapons to rely on, weapons, to resist 
which, those walls had not been built. It was more 
than a century, since for the first time, the roar of artil- 
lery had' been heard above the din of battle. At Cressy, 
in 1346, it had been used by the English against the 
French. Although more than a hundred years had 
elapsed since then, the use of gunpowder had made 
comparatively little progress, and small firearms were- 
only beginning to be employed. Large cannon, however, 
were used extensively. The artillery of Mahomet con- 
sisted of fourteen powerful batteries, which were di- 
rected against the city from the land side. 

The defenders of Constantinople were not idle. De- 
tachments of soldiers were stationed on the terraces be- 
tween the wall of Constantine and that of Theodo- 
sius, while the mouths of cannon were pointed towarda 


90 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


the enemy. From the tower in Galata, on the other side 
of the Golden Horn, an iron chain w^as stretched across 
the harbor and attached to the Tower of Eugenius, in 
Constantinople. The entrance to the harbor was also 
guarded by the Greek ships. The dying Byzantine Em- 
pire determined to sell its life dearly. The Emperor 
himself assumed command of his forces, while the Gen- 
oese, Giustiniani, was second to him. 

While all Constantinople remained in expectation of 
the things to come, Dimitries Phocas, and many of his 
comrades, were stationed at the Palace of Blachernae, 
they being held in reserve. The ardent nature of the 
young man could ill brook the state of inactivity to 
which he was condemned, while so many soldiers of the 
Empire stood at the post of danger on the ramparts, but 
Morosini sustained his courage and cheered him with 
the assurance that he would soon be called upon to take 
an Active part in the defense of his native city. While 
they were conversing on the possibilities and probabili- 
ties of the siege, suddenly loud peals, as of thunder, 
rent the air. Both men understood the meaning of the 
sound; they rushed to the walls, whence a sight of the 
Turkish camp might be obtained ; the air was filled with 
smoke. For a short while there was silence ; then, while 
they gazed towards the Moslem army, white clouds sud- 
denly burst forth from the enemy’s ranks, all along the 
line, and, after a brief interval, another prolonged roar 
re-echoed over the surrounding country ; Mahomet had 
brought his fourteen batteries to bear upon Constanti- 
nople at the same time. Almost immediately the noise 
of artillery resounded from over the sea. The Turkish 
ships were playing upon the city? while a naval combat 
was taking place between the Greeks and Turks. The 


DIMITRIOS A>^D IREKE. 


91 


Toar became deafening, for the Greeks on the walls had 
opened fire on their enemies, and formidable engines of 
war on both sides were belching forth deadly fire, which 
oost many a life. 

In solemn silence Morosini and Dimi trios contemplated 
the deadly conflict. The ardent Greek would gladly have 
oast himself into the fray, but military discipline held 
him aloof, and condemned him to play the part of an idle 
spectator. In the midst of the excitement, his thoughts 
wandered away now to Helena, whom he had entrusted 
to the care of a faithful old servant, and whose fright he 
painfully pictured to himself, as the sound of artillery 
broke upon her ear, then to Irene. As the image of 
the latter flitted across his mind, a feeling of unutterable 
anxiety filled his heart. Where can she be ? Perhaps, 
at this very moment — Oh ! he dared not think of it — in 
the power of a cruel follower of Mahomet. And where 
is Hicolaus ? These painful thoughts filled his mind, 
as the deafening roar of cannon sent forth its echoes. 

While the two friends stood silently gazing at the 
awful scene, an artillery soldier passed them. • 

“What is the progress of affairs, friend asked Di- 
mitries. 

“Bad enough !” replied the soldier. “Pieces of the 
wall are falling; it was not built to withstand gun- 
powder. Moreover, what is still worse, the walls are 
too narrow for our cannon, and the recoil shakes them 
to an alarming extent, we fear lest we may have to de- 
sist firing.” 

“In that case,” exclaimed Dimitrios, “Heaven protect 
ns . we will be at the mercy of our enemies.” 

“It is not so bad as that, yet,” said Morosini ; “we 
shall fight desperately.” 


92 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


“But what can we do without cannon ?” 

“If a breach is made, we shall defend it to the last 
man, and if the Turks enter, it will not be before hun- 
dreds of the infidels shall have fallen under our blows.” 

As Morosini, who was now clad in full armor, spoke 
these words, he grasped the hilt of his sword, as if to 
add weight to his assertion. 

Meanwhile, the roar of cannon continued; clouds 
of smoke filled the air, and the work of death went on; 
the agony of Byzantium had begun. 


CHAPTER XL 


The siege had been lasting five days, sometimes 
the cannon roaring without intermission for several 
hours, while at intervals the bombardment ceased, to be- 
gin with renewed vigor. On the morning of the sixth 
day, Dimitries, being free from duty, was, according 
to agreement, met by Morosini at the palace of 
Blachernae. The latter had procured two beautiful 
and richly caparisoned horses. As they both stood 
beside the animals, ready to mount them, Morosini 
spoke : 

‘‘Dimitries, you are acquainted with the political and 
religious history of your country, I know ; but, although 
you are a Constantinopolitan by birth, and I am a for- 
eigner, nevertheless, I pride myself in knowing Con- 
stantinople better than you do. You will, therefore, 
not take it amiss if I assume the role of an instructor.” 

“By no means, my dearest friend ; on the contrary, my 
gratitude to you for this, as well as for all else, will be 
unbounded.” 

“Well, let us begin here. Since the twelfth century 
the old imperial palace has been gradually abandoned 
for this one in the suburb of Blachernae. I doubt 
whether the Emperors have done wisely. The old palace, 
connected with so many endearing traditions, is so 
beautifully situated on the Bosphorus ; would it not 
have been better to keep it in a good condition of repair, 
instead of allowing it to go to ruin? But, such is the 


94 


DIMITEIOS AND lEENE. 


nature of man. Yonder you behold the dungeon of the 
Pentapyrgion, from which the traitor, Mcolaus, so re- 
cently escaped. I believe that you had never set foot 
within its walls until you visited the unfortunate man.^' 

‘‘You are right. I had often wondered what the in- 
terior of the Pentapyrgion was like, but I had never 
seen it.” 

Both the young men sprang into their saddles, and as 
they trotted on, Morosini continued : 

“Yonder, to the northeast, you behold the church of 
St. Mary of Blachernae. Have you ever been within it?” 

“Yes, once: I assisted at the Eucharistic Sacrifice on 
the feast of St. Spiridion.” 

“Ho you behold yonder hill ? It is the Cosmidion. It 
was there that the first Crusaders pitched their tents 
during the reign of Alexius Oomnenus.” 

“Yes; I have read with the greatest interest that por- 
tion of our history in the works of the celebrated female 
historian, Anna Comnena, the daughter of the Emperor 
Alexius.” 

“How allow me to draw your attention'to the walls. 
That with the massive towers, at the extreme north- 
western portion of the city, and to our left, is the wall 
of Heraclius, built in the seventh century. It protects 
the palace and the suburb of Blachernae. The walls of 
Constantinople have all been erected at various epochs 
and under different Emperors. The old Megarian city 
of Byzantium stood at the extreme eastern portion of 
Constantinople, there where now are the palace, St. 
Sophia, the Hippodrome and adjacent buildings. The 
first Christian Emperor designed to erect his Hew Eome 
on seven hills like its namesake in the West. This plan 
was executed, but only long after his death. The original 


DIMITEIOS AHD IREKE. 


95 


walls of Constantine stretched on the south along the 
Propontis to the mouth of the River Lycus and, on the 
north, along the Golden Horn to the Church of the 
Saviour, which lies yonder to the southeast. Both these 
walls Constantine united by the land wall passing around 
the Polyandrion, near the Church of the Holy Apostles. 
The two Theodosian walls were erected early in the fifth 
century during the reign of Theodosius II. The town 
gates in the latter walls, which are now closed on account 
of the siege, correspond with the seven gates in the wall 
of Constantine. The Leontine wall was constructed 
during the reign of Leo the Armenian in the Ninth 
Century. Thus, you see, the city is fortified first by the 
great ditch, then by the Theodosian walls back of it, the 
wall of Heraclius, the Leontine wall and finally the 
wall of Constantine, which is the oldest and yi^hich 
forms the inner line. Now let us return and follow the 
land wall.” 

“We are in a dangerous position,” said Dimi trios,, 
“entirely exposed to the enemy’s fire.” 

“It is dangerous everywhere,” answered Morosini, 
“let us trust in the protection of our guardian angels. 
On the other hand, keep your eyes open, you can hear 
the balls as they . fiy, and see them some time before 
they fall, so that we may evade them. We have 
six gates to pass, among them that of Polyan- 
drion which opens on the road to Adrianople, the 
Roussion, the gate of the Heptapyrgion, near the Castle 
of the Seven Towers, and the Golden gate. The last 
named is nearly at the extreme end of the wall towards 
the Propontis.” 

Thus conversing, while an occasional ball would fly 
over their heads, strike the. walls or tear up the earth of 




DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


the terraces, the two frieDds rode along the fortifications, 
until with mutual agreement they put spurs to their 
horses and galloped at full speed, until they had reached 
the southwestern angle of the city, where the waters of 
the Propontis or Sea of Marmora wash the walls of Con- 
stantinople, then, turning to the left, they followed the 
sea wall until they reached the harbor of Theodosius, the 
mouth of which was protected by two towers which had 
recently been joined by a wall. There they turned to 
the left and rode in the direction of the Polyandrion, 
where, by the gate of that name, they entered the older 
portion of the city of Constantine. Eiding in a south- 
-easterly direction, they reached the Forum of Theodo- 
sius, passing near the aqueduct of Valens, and the 
Church of the Pantocrator, in the Monastery, attached 
to which, as Morosini pointed out to Dimitrios, the 
Latins had had their headquarters in the preceding 
century. Proceeding still further east, they finally ar- 
rived at the ancient Acropolis, with which we have been 
rendered familiar as being the spot near which St. Sophia 
stands. After some rest and refreshment taken in the 
quarters of the Imperial Guards at the old palace and a 
brief visit to St. Sophia, the two friends again mounted 
their horses, and, passing along the shores of the Golden 
Horn, proceeded as far as the gate Xylocircus, whence 
they returned to the Blachernae palace. They had thus 
•completed the circuit of the city, with the exception of 
the space between the harbor of Theodosius and the 
Acropolis, which they had omitted, by taking the route 
we have indicated past the Polyandrion. Morosini had 
pointed out many points of inferior interest which were 
unknown to Dimitrios, and the latter expressed himself 
as perfectly satisfied. 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


97 

The day \vaS now nearly spent, and out towards the 
west the spears of the Turkish soldiery glittered in the 
mellow rays of the sun as it descended towards the ho- 
rizon, while the report of their cannon reminded the 
frightened inhabitants of Constantinople that the enemy 
was before the walls. The clouds in the west gradually 
lost their topaz hue, till, as so many tongues of fire, they 
shot across the skies, slowly mellowing into darkness. 
Sombre, and still more sombre, grew the shadows on the 
earth, the blue green of the plains becoming purple. 
The gorgeous tints of the sunset vanished, as the ever 
deepening shades announced the coming of the night. 
By degrees a melancholy pall was cast by nature’s hand 
over the beleagured city, fit emblem of the dark clouds 
of apprehension that hovered over the hearts of its in- 
habitants. The reports of Turkish cannon grew less 
frequent, until they finally ceased, leaving in their stead 
a painful silence that hung heavily over the population. 

Some hours had passed since Dimitrios and Morosini 
had returned from their excursion, and the Greek youth 
had hastened homeward to his sister. He found her 
alone and lost in revery. 

^‘0 ! brother,” she exclaimed, as she saw him enter, 
“how long this day has seemed ! It appeared as though 
you would never come. Fearful apprehensions filled my 
mind ; I saw you standing on the walls, and, as the con- 
tinuous roar of the cannon sounded in my ears, I im- 
agined those deadly balls fiying around you — and, oh !” 

The affrighted girl bent her head over her arm that 
was leaning on a table near by. ^ brief silence 

she continued : 

“My imagination was so strong, it worked so fearfully. 


98 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREi^E. 


I saw you struck by one of those frightful messengers 
of death. I saw you fall.’’ 

The poor girl burst into tears and sobbed aloud, moan- 
ing: 

“0 ! Dimitrios, it is awful.” 

“Calm your fears, my sister,” the youth replied, “thus 
far I have not been called upon to perform active duty.” 

“But, Dimitrios, you will have to bear your portion of 
the labor and share in the great struggle; brother, my 
poor brother, I can stand it no longer. Expose not your 
life ; there are enough soldiers without you, one more or 
less will not cause the city to succumb. Eemember you 
are the only one left me ; what ? 0 ! what shall I do 
without you ; what will become of me if you fall ?” 

The heart of Dimitrios bled, he could find no reply. 

“Speak, brother, speak. Will you remain with your 
sister, and not leave her again ?” 

“But, my dearest Helena, in defending Constantinople 
I am defending you. Of what use can I be to you in 
the house ? Pray do not dissuade me.” 

“0 ! No, no, no ! You are risking your life, they will 
kill you ; Dimitrios, you must not, shall not go. By 
all that is dear to us, by the memory of our departed 
father, by the love of our mother, I beseech you, stay.” 

Dimitrios felt his heart yielding even against the 
dictates of his judgment, but, making a superhuman 
effort, he said : 

“Helena, would you wish me to shrink from the ful- 
fillment of a sacred duty ? If my father were alive, he 
would stand beside his son to join in the glorious com- 
bat against the infidel, my mother herself would gird 
the sword around me. Would you have it said that a 
descendant of Nicephorus Phocas has shown himself a 


DIMITRIOS AIn'D IREXE. 


99 


coward ? Did you not often read to me how, in the 
tenth century, our glorious ancestor w^as the terror of 
the Saracens ? Shall I he unworthy of the conqueror of 
Aleppo ? Are not the bronze gates of Adana, Mopsuestia 
and Tarsus the trophies of his victory? And think, 
Helena, how many helpless orphans there are, how many 
widowed mothers, how many tender maidens, who hold 
out their hands imploringly to me, crying: Dimifcrios 
Phocas, help us, save us from the Turks. And shall I 
turn a deaf ear to their supplications, shall I abandon 
them to their fate ?” 

Helena gazed at the inspired youth with admiration. 
In spite of her grief she could not help sharing his en- 
thusiasm. 

“Dimitrios,” she exclaimed, ^^you are a noble boy ; 
yes, you are made of the stuff of which heroes are made. 
My heart is bleeding, breaking, dying, but, my brother, 
I give you up for the love of our country and of our 
God. Go ! Fight, conquer or die, and if you fall, your 
sister will not survive you. The same grave shall con- 
tain the bodies of Dimitrios and Helena.” 

Dimi trios caught the girl in his arms and pressed her 
to his heart. 

‘‘You speak as a true daughter of Byzantium should 
speak, Helena. My mother, noble woman ! lives again 
— you are her image, my sister.” 

Seating himself beside her, he continued : 

“How, that you are calm, I will break to you a piece 
of news which I dared not mention until I knew that 
you were ready to make a sacrifice. How listen, my 
brave heroine. The Emperor has decided to make a 
sortie to-morrow, and to lead it in person. The Sultan’s 
batteries are playing havoc with the walls, and, above 


100 


DIMITEIOS Ai^D IREi^E. 


all, one of his cannon performs deadly work. Our brave 
Emperor is determined to beard the lion in his den and, 
if possible, take the battery and spike the cannon. He 
will leave the city under cover of night, and, before the 
morning dawns, we shall be hand to hand with the ac- 
cursed brutes.” 

^‘What do you say, Dimitrios, we ? Are you going ?” 

^‘My sister, did you not tell me to be a hero ; do you 
retract ?” 

“Ho, Dimitrios,” moaned the sobbing girl. “Ho ! but 
it is awful, I fear to lose you,” and she clung to him as 
though they were taking him away from her by force, 
while she buried her face on his shoulder. “Must you 
go ? Has the Emperor lost his senses ? Does he not 
know that his handful of men cannot stand against the 
hordes of barbarians ?” 

“The case is desperate, Helena, we must risk it. I feel 
for you, sister. Were I alone, 0 ! how gladly, and with 
what alacrity, would I cast myself into the midst of our 
foes I But my heart sinks within me, it is crushed, when 
I think of you. But duty calls, stern duty summons 
me to its side, and when duty calls, we must obey. Pray 
for me, and, like Moses on the mountain, raise your 
hands to heaven, while I struggle against the enemies of 
Christ. How, Helena, dear, I must be gone. The night 
is already advanced. I must join the ranks. I must 
hasten.” 

The poor girl threw her arms around her brother’s 
neck and sobbed : 

“Dimitrios, my dear, dear brother, do not leave me. 
What shall I do without you ?” 

“Be strong, Helena. Trust in God.” 


DIMITllIOS A^D lEEiq-E. 


lo; 


‘‘The spirit is willing, brother, hut the flesh is weak, 
hut I resign myself to God’s holy will.” 

The suffering girl cast herself upon her knees, and 
with her eyes and hands raised to heayen, and tears 
streaming down her cheeks, she exclaimed : 

“Not my will. Father, but thine be done!” 

The scene was heartrending ; many a stern soul would 
have been melted on beholding it, and the reader may 
well imagine what the heart of Dimitrios must have felt. 

“Helena,” he exclaimed, “let us unite our sacriflce for 
God and our country.” 

He fell upon his knees, and with eyes raised heaven- 
ward, prayed: 

“Eternal God, who didst command Abraham to sacri- 
fice his son Isaac, help us in this hour of trial. Thou 
dost require of us a sacrifice, from which human nature 
shrinks in terror, but Thou who didst strengthen the 
Father of the faithful, hear our prayer, that grace may 
conquer in our hearts. I offer to Thee, Heavenly Father, 
the sacrifice of my life, and of that which is even 
dearer to me than life, of my only sister, in honor of 
the great Sacrifice of Calvary. Cross of my Redeemer, 
be my strength in the midst of my tribulation.” 

Dimitrios arose. He seemed another man. Helena, 
too, had grown calmer, firm determination showed itself 
upon her face. 

“I go, Helena, at the call of duty. If the sacrifice 
of my life is demanded, my dearest friend will provide 
for you. You know him ; Morosini will be your brother.” 

Hrother and sister embraced each other, and the 
dreadful ordeal was over. Dimitrios was gone. Helena 
stood gazing at the door through which he had passed, 
as though she still beheld his form. Them a compre- 


102 


DIMITKIOS AND IRENE. 


hension of her ntter loneliness burst upon her, she cast 
herself upon the couch, and sobbed aloud. 

•‘0, why did I let him go she said. ‘‘Dimitrios, my 
brother, shall I ever see you again, shall my eyes once 
more rest upon your manly face, shall I press your hand 
again, shall I ever read to you, as I did in those happy 
days, now past forever ? Alas ! is there happiness on 
earth ?” 

A voice sounded within the depths of her soul : 

“The life of man upon earth is a warfare. . . . Man 
born of a woman, living for a short time, is filled with 
many miseries.” 

“It is true !” she exclaimed. had often read those 
passages of J oh, but nevei: did I understand them until 
now. My life had always been so tranquil, so undis- 
turbed, but now the warfare has begun. I must bear 
my cross as others have borne theirs, but the cross leads 
to eternal life. Patience, my soul, after this life fol- 
lows another, where tne weary soul finds rest and we 
part no more.” 


• CHAPTEE XIL 


The night was dark ; not a star shone in the firma- 
ment. The Emperor could not have chosen a betfer 
time for the execution of his plans. The Turks were 
still at a considerable distance from the city, and it was 
deemed necessary that the sortie should be made at an 
early hour of the morning, in order that the unsuspect- 
ing enemy should be met before daybreak. The Empe- 
ror had decided to lead in person the attack, proceeding 
from the gate of Charisius, while the Genoese Giustin- 
iani would head another from the Selymbria gate. Each 
would command a thousand men, attack separate bat- 
teries, but, if necessary, concentrate their forces on the 
great battery, where stood the famous cannon from 
Adrianople. The Emperor had been advised not to 
make the attempt, on account of the great distance of 
the Turkish army, and the difficulty there would be in 
effecting a retreat without severe loss in case of failure, 
but the thought of the incalculable damage that was 
being wrought by the enemy’s cannon, decided him to 
attempt the hazardous enterprise. Only the infantry 
were to form the detachments. These were armed with 
crossbows, in imitation of the Crusaders, a rude species 
of small firearms that were just coming into use, spears 
and ponderous swords. 

Both detachments were, at an early hour of the morn- 
ing, drawn up behind their respective gates. The en- 
tire affair had been managed with so much secrecy, that 


104 


DIMITRIOS AKD IRENE. 


most of tlie inhabitants of Constantinople were ignorant 
of what was taking place. At the appointed hour, and, 
at a given sign, both gates were simultaneously opened^ 
and the troops marched out. The vanguard was formed 
by those who carried firearms ; these were followed by 
the men with the crossbows ; then came the light infan- 
try with lances and swords. The rear was brought up 
by 'the Varangian Guards, among whom rode the Empe- 
ror. Dimitrios was there in full armor, with cuirass, 
■ helmet and sword. On his breastplate was blazoned the 
ancient device of Byzantium, the crescent and the star. 

In perfect silence, and as noiselessly as their numbers 
would permit, marched the columns. Stillness reigned 
supremely ; not a sound was wafted upon the restful 
air.. There was absolutely nothing to indicate the pres- 
ence of an invading army. Suddenly a flash of light- 
ning shot athwart the sky; it was momentary, but suffi- 
cient to render visible all surrounding objects. To the 
eyes of the astounded Greeks, it showed the Turkish 
tents. They lay there in peaceful silence, indicating 
naught of the savage hearts with their fierce passions 
that were beating beneath them. A sound of distant 
thunder rolled under the vault of heaven, a sign of the 
coming storm. Simultaneously with the ominous sound 
from the heavens, a flash of light suddenly burst forth 
from the Turkish camp ; it was followed by a loud 
report. 

‘^We are discovered!” exclaimed the Emperor; then 
turning to one of his staff, he gave orders to halt. The 
bugle-sound re-echoed in the stillness of the night ; it 
was repeated from a distance towards the south: 
the answer from Giustiniani’s columns. At the same 
moment there was another flash, followed by a report. 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


105 


and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the soldiers. 
The lightning flashed, showing the Turkish camp, 
which had now become like a beehive, teeming with 
life and activity. The Emperor, turning towards two 
of the highest officers in the army, who stood beside 
him, asked their advice. 

‘‘Sire,” replied the elder of the two, a veteran soldier, 
“it would be madness to continue. It would be worse 
than attacking Mahomet’s forces in broad daylight. 
Besides the danger of being mowed down by their can- 
non before reaching them, in this darkness we would 
be unable to distinguish friend from foe. My advice 
is, that we retreat.” 

“And I will act upon it,” said the Emperor ; “we can 
ill afford to sacrifice our men uselessly.” 

The bugle sounded the retreat, and the columns 
wheeled around, returning in an inverse order from 
which they had come, the Imperial Guards taking the 
lead, and the men with the firearms bringing up the 
rear. Again the lightning flashed ; again a report wa& 
heard, and another ball flew whistling through the air. 
The light from the heavens had shown the Turks that 
the Greeks were in full retreat. A cry that rent the 
air, arose from their ranks : 

“God is God, and Mahomet is His Prophet !” 

The bugle sounded the double-quick step and the 
Grecian columns ran in perfect order toward the city, 
while the Turkish-cannon balls flew thick and fast over 
them. Fortunately, the enemy aimed too high. The 
gates were reached and closed; the expedition had 
aborted. The companies were disbanded, the Imperial 
Guards returning to their quarters, where, before they 


106 


DIMITKIOS AKD IRENE. 


were dismissed, the roll was called. As each one was 
named, the answer came : 
am here.’’ 

The list of names had been nearly read, all those 
called being present. Finally, the officer’s voice sounded : 

“Dimitrios Phocas!” 

There was no reply. The soldiers gazed at one an- 
other in mute astonishment; there was one man miss- 
ing, and that one Dimitries. 

Although he had been only a short time in the ser- 
vice, he had grown to be a universal favorite, nor was 
any one so much esteemed among the Guards as he. 

It was also known how high he stood in the Empe- 
ror’s estimation, and how closely he was linked by the 
ties of friendship to the Emperor’s Italian favorite, 
Morosini. This added no little to the universal esteem 
in which he was held. It fell, consequently, like a 
thunderbolt upon the soldiers when there was no answer 
to the call of his name. Dimitrios had never been 
known to have been guilty of a breach of discipline, and 
it could not be supposed that his absence was volun- 
tary, therefore, some accident must have befallen him. 
But how could it have occurred ? No one had missed 
him. He could not have been struck by a ball without 
his comrades noticing it. There was, consequently, a 
mystery, perhaps, of great importance. It was, there- 
fore, necessary that the Emperor should be informed, 
for it was his wish that every occurence out of the ordi- 
nary line should be brought to his notice. The chief- 
tain of the Guards himsef undertook to inform him. 

The officer, having announced that he had matters of 
importance to communicate, was immediately admitted 
to the monarch’s presence. Although the sovereign was 


DIMITKIOS lEEKE. 


107 


worn out with ftitigue, and it was now nearly daybreak, 
he had not retired, but the chieftain found him closeted 
with Morosini, engaged in earnest conversation. The 
officer, entering, knelt before his sovereign, who bade 
him speak. 

“Your Majesty,” said the officer, “what I have to say 
to you grieves me sorely: one of my best soldiers can- 
not be found.” 

The Emperor, who knew all his guards by name, en- 
quired with deep interest : 

“Who is it ?” 

“Your Majesty, it is Dimi trios Phocas.” 

Morosini, forgetting the imperial presence, sprang up, 
as though an electric shock had passed through him. 

“Impossible !” he exclaimed ; “Good Heavens ! it can- 
not be !” 

“Dimitrios Phocas ?” repeated the Emperor ; “are you 
not mistaken ?” 

“No, Sire, Dimitrios was the only one who failed to 
answer the call.” 

“Did he leave the city with the troops ?” 

“He did. Sire, most assuredly ; he was present before 
we left our quarters, and I even exchanged words with 
him outside the walls, shortly before the first shot was 
fired from the Turkish camp.” 

“Did you see him since ?” 

“No, Sire, I did not.” 

“This is a mystery. He could not possibly have been 
struck by a ball, or it would have been noticed. There 
must be treachery.” 

“Not in Dimitrios ?” exclaimed Morosini. 

^‘No, Vincent, I did not mean that ; but I am almost 


108 


DIMITKIOS AND lEENE. 


afraid that we are surrounded by traitors ; who can tell 
where the serpent, Nicolaus Lecapenos, is ?” 

Morosini stood dumbfounded. 

The Emperor continued: 

‘‘No pains must be spared; let every quarter of the 
city be searched ; send men outside of the walls, as much 
as prudence will permit, at least, as far as we proceeded 
last night; the Turks will not venture so near the city. 
I will grant myself no rest until Dimitrios is found.” 

“Your Majesty,” said Morosini, may I depart? I 
have a painful yet cherished duty to perform. Dimit- 
rios has entrusted to me the care of his sister.” 

“Yes, Vincent, go, and may the Mother of God pro- 
tect you !” 

The Venetian prostrated himself before his Majesty 
and retired. The Emperor, addressing the chieftain 
of the Guards, spoke: 

“Are you perfectly sure that there is no traitor among 
your men ?” 

“I am, your Majesty; I trust each individual among 
them as much as I trust myself. You know that they 
are a select body of men, although foreigners, and that 
each one has been admitted only upon the highest 
recommendations.” 

“I cannot, then, possibly solve the mystery; truly, 
matters are darkening around us. Go now, do your 
duty ; spare no pains ; find Dimitrios for me. I will be 
ever grateful to you.” 

The officer arose and retired. 

Header, it is now morning ; the bright sun shines over 
Constantinople ; the bombardment was resumed at dawn. 
Return with me to the house of Dimitrios. Helena had 
not closed her eyes ; she would have refused sleep had 


DIMITRIOS AXD IREi^-E. 


109 


it presented itself. A great part of the night she had 
spent in prayer. The firing during the night had greatly 
alarmed her, and she trembled for the safety of her bro- 
ther. Finally, the morning dawned, and she gladly wel- 
comed its approach, for it would relieve her anxiety and 
bring her news of her brother. She had gone out into the 
court-yard, and she was sitting beside the fountain when 
Morosini was announced. Her heart beat rapidly ; every 
nerve in her body trembled. What could this early 
visit indicate ? Had anything happened to Dimitrios ? 
She gave orders to the servant to admit the visitor, and 
Morosini entered. He was pale, though a forced smile 
played upon his lips. Helena saw at a glance that some- 
thing unwonted had occurred ; she sprang up quickly 
and extended her hands imploringly, as she exclaimed : 

“Tell me, oh ! tell me, where is my brother 

“Be calm, my lady,” said Morosini. “Do not be use- 
lessly agitated.” 

“Oh, yes, yes.” she cried out, “something has hap- 
pened; tell me; leave me not in suspense; where 
is he?” 

Morosini, fearing lest her anxiety should cause her 
more harm than the knowledge of the truth, gently 
broke the news to her. 

The girl’s face grew white; her head swam; there 
was a ringing in her ears ; she threw up her hands, and, 
with a piercing shriek, she fell. Helena had fainted. 

Morosini, alarmed, hastily summoned the servants. 
Two old trusty domestics, who had been with the family 
for years, ran forward, followed by Zoe, the old nurse, 
who loved her young mistress more than she loved her- 
self. They bathed her forehead, applied various reme- 
dies, and carried her to her apartment. Morosini re- 


110 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREKE. 


mained in the house until he was assured by the physi- 
cian, who had been summoned, that there was no imme- 
diate danger. The latter, however, recommended abso- 
lute rest. When, after a long period of unconscious- 
ness, the girl Opened her eyes, there was a vacant stare 
in them. She seemed to recognize no one, and, from 
time to time, muttered the name of Dimitrios. 

The day passed, but there was no news of the young 
Greek. The Emperor’s orders had been strictly exe- 
cuted ; no stone had been left unturned, but no clue to 
the mystery could be discovered. Dimitrios had disap- 
peared, as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. 
The ruler of the Byzantine Empire was disconsolate, for, 
although the young man was far beneath him, he knew 
that one of his ancestors had been seated on the same 
throne he occupied, and, moreover, he was deeply at- 
tached to Dimitrios. 

Morosini’s grief knew no bounds. He offered great 
rewards for any clue that would lead to the discovery 
of his friend, but it was all of no avail. The mystery 
could not be unraveled. 

Irene had been treacherously taken away from Con- 
.stantinople, and now, Dimitrios had vanished. Dark 
forebodings filled the soul of Vincent Morosini. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


While a part of Constantinople was disturbed and 
lost in painful reflections on account of the sudden dis- 
appearance of Dimitrios, strange things were taking 
place within the Turkish camp. In a small tent, not 
far from the payilion of the Sultan, sat upon the ground 
a man, apparently in the prime of life. His face was 
ferocious, resembling that of a blood-thirsty animal, yet 
there was a mildness in his eye and a peculiar kindly 
expression about his lips which contrasted strongly 
with the rest of his features. He held in his hands a 
manuscript hook, with illuminated letters, which he 
was reading attentively. It was not written in the 
Turkish language, neither was it Greek, but the char- 
acters were unmistakably Latin or Roman. On close 
observation, you would not have failed to recognize the 
reader; it was no other than Selim whom we met at the 
gate ot Adrianople. 

It was the morning after the attempted sortie in which 
Dimitrios had disappeared. The dew drops hung pearl- 
like from the leaves, while a refreshing coolness filled 
the air ; even the grass in the tent of Selim was damp, 
and he had spread upon it the thick rug upon which 
he was seated. Suddenly he was startled by the sound 
of footsteps outside of the tent. Hastily closing the 
book he was reading, he concealed it within the loose 
jacket that he wore, and looked angrily toward the en- 
trance. A portion of the canvass that closed it was 


112 


DIMITRIOS AJfD IREKE. 


raised and a Turkish soldier entered. Giving Selim a 
military salute, he spoke: 

•‘The Sultan desires your presence. This is the pass- 
word,” and he whispered into the ear of Selim, who, 
without a word of reply, arose, and, leaving the tent, 
directed his steps towards the Sultan’s pavilion. It was 
surrounded by a detachment of soldiers. As he ap- 
proached the entrance, an officer advanced to meet him 
and whispered: 

“The password!” 

In an equally low tone of voice, Selim replied: 

“The triumph of the Koran!” 

He was allowed to pass on. The pavilion of Mahomet 
II. was a wooden house, raised high above the ground, 
half Byzantine, half Moorish in style, and containing 
several apartments. A flight of stairs led up to the 
arched doorway. As Selim approached the door, he 
spoke to the attendant : 

“I am Selim, the Sultan awaits me.” 

The guard replied : 

“In the name of Allah, advance and follow me.”. 

The soldier proceeding, Selim followed and he was 
admitted into the presence of the Turkish ruler, before 
whom he prostrated himself. 

“Arise, Selim,” spoke the Monarch, “may’st thou con- 
quer thy enemies and may thy face be ever white !” 

“May Allah protect thee, son of the Prophet !” replied 
Selim. 

“Selim,” said the Sultan, “we have been fortunate, 
Allah has this night not only delivered us from the 
snares intended for us by our enemies, but he has de- 
livered one of the Christian dogs into our hands.” 

There was a peculiar smile upon the lips of Selim. 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


113 


“Last night/’ continued the Sultan, “after the Greeks 
had retreated, and we were once more lulled to rest and 
calm repose in the full security of our strength, an in- 
cident occurred that might have proved injurious to us. 
One of the guards at the great battery, thinking he 
heard a rustling of leaves and an unwonted sound on 
the side of the hill on which the large cannon is mounted, 
directed his steps towards the spot whence the sound 
came. A good genius conducted him, for he had scarcely 
approached the cannon, when the figure of a man was 
seen to glide away. He immediately fired a shot, with 
one of his small arms, thus giving the alarm, the place 
was scoured, and, to our great and good fortune, a young 
Greek was captured. He was at once brought into my 
presence. I assure you, Selim, that I have seldom 
seen such a handsome countenance ; and what a noble 
bearing ! I said to myself : he would be an acquisition 
for the Prophet. What, think you, had brought him 
hither ? A huge spike and a large hammer were found 
upon him. These suflBciently indicate his intentions. 
At all events, the stars have favored us, our cannon has 
been saved and we have been spared much annoyance. 
What think you, we should do with the young man ?” 

Selim looked like a tiger, his eyes flashed fire, his 
brows were knitted : 

“Son of Allah,” he exclaimed, “death is too good for 
him, he must be tortured.” 

“I will be merciful,” replied the Sultan, “I have 
thought much over the matter, and have come to the 
following decision : if the Greek consents to embrace the 
religion of the Koran, he shall live ; if not, he must die.’’ 

“Yes, and a horrible death,” replied Selim. 


114 


DIMITRIOS Ai^D IREXE. 


The Sultan gazed at him in surprise. It was the first 
time that he had ever pleaded for the death of a captive. 

‘‘Selim,” he spoke, ‘T knew that yours was not the 
heart of a woman, hut I never knew that you delighted 
in the shedding of blood.” 

“I delight in justice,” the other replied, then con- 
tinued : 

“Can I serve Mahomet in this matter ?” 

“You can, Selim. I entrust the prisoner to you. Be 
kind to him at first, endeavor to win him for the Prophet, 
leave nothing untried, promise him everything. Have 
patience, I grant him to you as your slave. If you suc- 
ceed, he shall he free, hut a greater reward shall be 
yours. If you fail, do with him as you list, torture 
him, let him suffer, and end his agony by death when 
he can live no longer.” 

The Sultan, placing a board and paper on his knee, 
wrote. Handing the document to Selim, he said: 

“Here is my firman, show it to the officer of the guard, 
and he will have you conducted to the tent where the 
prisoner is in custody. You may go now.” 

Selim prostrated himself before the Sultan and de- 
parted. The signature of the Monarch worked like a 
talisman. Two soldiers were immediately detailed to 
conduct Selim to the prisoner. As he entered the tent, 
his eye fell upon a young man, half nude, who lay 
chained to a huge block of wood. Selim approached 
him, he raised up the head of the prisoner, it was 
Dimitrios Phocas. A look of intense surprise showed 
itself upon the face of the Turk. Turning towards the 
guards, he said: 

“Unlock the prisoner’s chains, and conduct him to my 
tent.” 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREJ^E, 


115 


Within a quarter of an hour, Selim and the young 
Greek were alone in the tent of the former. The Turk 
was seated, while the Greek stood before him. 

‘‘Christian,” said Selim in Greek, with a kindly voice, 
“what brought thee hither ?” 

“My duty to my country.” 

“Didst thou not know that thy life was in danger ?” 

“I was willing to sacrifice my life.” 

“Ilad’st thou forgotten Helena 

Dimitrios was dumbfounded, he stared in mute sur- 
prise. 

“Be not astonished, Dimitrios, I know you ;” then, 
continuing in a low tone, Selim added ; 

“I will communicate to you a great secret, but prom- 
ise me first that it shall never cross your lips, until you 
have my permission.” 

“I promise, if it is compatible with my conscience.” 

“Then listen. Dimitrios, you know me, you have seen 
me ere this.” 

The astonished look upon the face of Dimitrios grew 
more intense. Selim’s voice changed completely, as he 
continued : 

“Do you not remember the monk Gregorios ?” 

“Father Gregorios?” replied Dimitrios in astonish- 
ment, “do you know Father Gregorios ? you have his 
voice now, but you had it not at first.” 

“I am Father Gregorios, my son. Sit beside me, 
Dimitrios, and you shall hear all. You recollect that 
T first met you at the outer porch of St. Sophia, on the 
western side, as we were both leaving the church. I 
accosted you, for there was something in your features 
that pleased me. I gained your confidence, you related 
to me matters concerning yourself and your family, my 


116 


DIMITEIOS AND lEENE. 


interest in yon was awakened. You believed me to be a 
Greek monk, as my habit seemed to indicate; yon were 
mistaken. I had not lied to you, no ! I was indeed from 
the monastery of Agios Kyriani, for I had spent there 
two months quite recently. I was also a monk, but not 
in the sense in which you understood it. Now, Dimit- 
rios, relying on your fidelity, I will tell you all. I am a 
Latin Christian, my name is Gregorio de Los Santos, and 
my country, the Kingdom of Aragon, for I was born at 
Leri da in the principality of Catalonia. I am not only 
a Latin, but I am a religious and priest of the Latin 
Church, in communion with the See of Eome. You look 
surprised, but, astonishing though it be, it is true. Were 
this known, my head would fall. Thus, Dimitrios, my 
life is in your hands, but, perhaps, your^happiness is in 
mine.” 

“Fear nothing. Father Gregorios, the ties of a com- 
mon Christianity unite us. Please, continue.” 

“I belong to the Order of La Merced for the Kedemp- 
tion of Captives, an order which was established at Bar- 
celona, in 1218, by Peter Nolasco, Eaymond of Penna- 
fort, and King James I. of Aragon. Our object is the 
deliverance of captives who are in the power of the in- 
fidel. We even take a vow by which we bind ourselves 
to surrender our liberty and remain as slaves instead of 
our brethren. It was my fortune to be called upon by 
Divine Providence to fulfill my promise. More than 
twenty years have elapsed since I have seen any of my 
brethren, seldom in that time has it been my privilege 
to offer up the Holy Sacrifice, but a loving Providence 
has sustained me in the midst of many difficulties. 
Truly, I have become anathema for my brethren. I will 
relate to you how it all occurred. I was a young man. 


DIMITRIOS AJS'D IREXE. 


iir 


full of fervor, and I had lately been ordained priest in 
our monastery of Our Lady of Puch. We had heard of 
the capture of Thessalonica, and learned that a number 
of Christian captives, both Geeks and Latins, had been 
carried off to Aleppo. Our superiors determined to send 
two religious thither with large sums of money for a 
ransom. Their choice fell upon me. With one of my 
brethren, I sailed from Barcelona, in 1432, through the 
Mediterranean as far as Smyrna, whence we journeyed 
by land to Aleppo. We had large sums of money con- 
tributed by charitable persons in Christendom, and we 
were enabled to ransom a number of captives. There 
was a poor Greek woman, advanced in years, who had 
fallen into the hands of an inhuman Turk. Her lot was 
pitiful. Subjected day after day to the most cruel treat- 
ment, and made to perform labors far above her strength, 
the poor creature seemed about to succumb. How gladly 
would I have paid her ransom ! But my money had all 
been spent. I remembered my vow, and offered myself to 
her Turkish master to be his slave in her stead. The Turk 
seeing in me an able-bodied young man, considered the 
exchange favorable, and let the old woman depart. She 
went away heaping blessings upon my head. My com- 
panion took her in charge and returned to Europe with 
his captives ; I remained in bondage. I had expected to 
be subjected to the same cruel treatment, but the con- 
trary was the case. For some reason or other my mas- 
ter took a liking to me. I was most faithful in the per- 
formance of my duty, I was skilled in medicine and thus 
rendered many a service, and, moreover, I amused him 
with certain arts in which I was proficient. For instance 
I constructed a piece of mechanism, an automaton, that 
would walk towards him as the door of his apartment 


118 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


opened. Moreover, I played the harp with a master-* 
touch. This man being an officer of high grade in the 
army, I followed him to the wars, and I was thus brought 
into relations with the Sultan. My knowledge and tact 
gained me universal esteem. The impression I made 
upon Sultan Amurath II. was such, that he obtained my 
freedom and attached me to the army. With his suc- 
cessor, Mahomet, I have enjoyed the same favor. I have 
rendered immense services by my medical skill, and the 
boldness of my manner has made me respected by the 
soldiers. 

“Some persons possess the power of contorting their 
features and taking the expression of any emotion. I 
am one of these. Though never gifted by nature with 
any degree of beauty, I have rendered my countenance 
still more ugly by the habitual savage expression I 
have assumed in order the better to awe my inferiors, 
who, if they knew me, would be my enemies. My 
position has been a difficult one, indeed. Brought into 
constant relations with the Mahometan religion, I have 
had an incessant struggle to avoid practising it, but cir- 
cumstances have favored me. I speak with respect of 
the prophet, as I would of some great ancestor of the 
Turks. In fact, I have become a Turk, in all but their 
religion. Several times I have had the opportunity to 
escape, but I have never availed myself of it, knowing the 
immense spiritual succor I am enabled to render the 
Christian captives who fall into the hands of the Mus- 
sulmans. Many a one I have saved from death, and to 
hundreds have I brought the consolations of our holy 
Eeligion in their last moments. When you met me in 
Constantinople, disguised as a Greek monk, I had gone 
thither to receive myself those consolations from which. 


DIMlTltlOS Ai^D IltEisE. 


119 


1 am so frequently deprived, I have kept myself in- 
formed of matters happening in your city, by means of 
a shrewd countryman of mine, whom you shall meet. 
Portuny is his name. Thus, Dimitrios, you know my 
history.” 

The youth, who had listened with the greatest atten- 
tion, now spoke : 

“Father, I can scarcely believe my ears. Your nar- 
rative is wonderful. How good Divine Providence is!” 

“Dimitrios, you are safe in my hands. I will restore 
you to Helena, but not now. Have patience. However, to 
relieve your anxiety, I will find means to communicate 
with her this very night, and the day after to-morrow, 
you shall hear from your sister. Write a letter to her 
immediately, and send it to me.” 

“How can I ever thank you, Father Gregorio ?” ex- 
claimed the grateful youth. 

“Fear nothing, my son, answered the priest. Divine 
Providence watches over you. I will provide for you a 
tent, and, to avoid suspicion, place a guard before it. 
Bear with this small inconvenience for the sake of Hel- 
ena. Farewell now.” 

Gregorio arose and conducted Dimitrios to the door, 
placing him in the hands of a guard, to whom, in the 
Turkish language, he gave orders to keep a strict watch 
over the prisoner, but to treat him with respect. Gre- 
gorio, or Selim, as we shall still call him, re-entered his 
tent. 

Within a half hour a guard entered bearing a letter 
from Dimitrios to Helena. Selim placed it in his bosom 
and nodded to the guard to retire ; he then took out the 
book we had seen in his hands in the morning, and con- 
tinued to read. It was his breviary. 


120 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


When Dimitries found himself alone, an inexpressi- 
ble feeling of sadness came over him. He was far from 
those he knew and loved, and he could imagine their 
state of anxiety on his account. Moreover, although he 
had found a friend, still he was a prisoner, and deprived 
of his liberty, and, besides, in the midst of enemies. His 
deed had been a rash one, but it was actuated by the 
purest motives of patriotism. It was with mingled feel- 
ings of awe and self-satisfaction that he revolved its 
circumstances in his mind, though he, at the same time, 
feared the blame of the Emperor and of his friends. 
The thought, also, of the amount of suffering he must 
have cost Helena, plunged him into the deepest grief ; 
but, alas ! it was a thought that came too late. What 
had brought Dimitrios to this sad plight ? On leaving 
Constantinople, the night before, he had set his heart 
upon being one of the first to mount the Turkish battery, 
and he had even provided himself with tools for spiking 
the cannon. When the order to retreat was given, his 
heart sank within him ; he saw how a glorious oppor- 
tunity was about to escape him. Dimitrios was a crea- 
ture of impulse, and he had many a hard lesson yet to 
learn before he would overcome the impetuosity of his 
temperament. Without reflecting on the dangers to 
which he was exposing himself, without even a second 
thought, he blindly decided to attempt alone what sev- 
eral companies of soldiers had not ventured to under- 
take. Profiting by the darkness to evade observation, 
he glided out of the ranks, and literally groped his way 
to the Turkish battery. He might have succeeded, had 
not the sharp ear of the Turkish guard detected a faint 
sound made by the rustling of some bushes, against 
which he brushed. The reader knows the rest. How 


DIMITEIOS A2fD IREifE. 


121 


that he found himself alone, and calm reflection had 
taken the place of the excitement of the previous night, 
Dimitrios saw into his rashness, hut it was too late. 
The thought of Helena, and her anxiety, tormented him, 
and he would have given the world for wings to fly intO' 
Constantinople, and he with his sister. The only com- 
fort he found was in the promise of Father G-regorio to 
communicate with her that very night. 

Selim discovered, on mature reflection, that it would 
not he such an easy task to fulfil his promise, hut he 
was a man of unbounded resources when there was a 
question of forming plans, and one who never gave up. 
If he had undertaken a thing, he went through fire and 
water to accomplish it. For a long time, after reciting- 
his office, he sat in a pensive mood, revolving in his 
mind various means of reaching Helena through a let- 
ter, hut difficulties ssemed to increase around him. The 
camp was well guarded, and it appeared almost impos- 
sible to leave it without exposing himself to great risk, 
nor was there a single person within his reach on whom 
he might rely. Finally, his eye brightened, a smile lit 
up his countenance. He arose, left his tent, and 
walked directly toward that of the prisoner. Pushing 
aside the canvas, he entered. 

“Dimitrios,” said he, “can you give me any informa- 
tion concerning Hicolaus Lecapenos?” 

“I can,” was the answer, and Dimitrios related briefly 
all that had occurred. Gregorio looked sad when he 
heard of the murder of Leila, and exclaimed, in a 
mournful voice : 

“Poor girl! God is just. Thank you, Dimitrios,” 
he added, “I shall soon find means to send a letter ta 
Helena, meanwhile, he of good courage ” 


122 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


Selim left the tent, and, for a time, paced up and 
■down as though greatly preoccupied ; finally, he moved 
towards the Sultan’s pavilion. An ofidcer of the Jani- 
zaries advanced to meet him. 

‘d cannot give you the password now,” said Selim, 
^^‘but, think you that there is a possibility of seeing the 
Sultan ?” 

‘dt is exceedingly doubtful,” answered the officer, 
^‘but I will see ; tarry here awhile.” 

Within a brief period he returned, saying : 

‘‘You may enter.” 

Selim, after the preliminary ceremonies, thus ad- 
dressed the monarch : 

“Sublime Lord, I have learned that hTicolaus has been 
condenmed to death; however, he has escaped from 
prison ; but he is in imminent danger. He may be useful 
to us ; should we not endeavor to save him ? He is a 
bold, daring and shrewd man, and such men are not 
found every day.” 

“True,” replied the Sultan, “but how can we commu- 
nicate with him ?” 

“I have hit upon a plan. If Nicolaus is found, he 
will surely be put to death, for it is known that he has 
betrayed the Greeks. On the other hand, in his pres- 
ent position, he can be of no service to us. You may be 
assured that the Emperor Constantine will do anything 
to gain your favor. Now, my plan is this : The young 
Greek you have captured, will be of little use. He has 
never borne arms until now; he could not possibly 
stand any hardships, and he lacks prudence. Offer to 
exchange him for Nicolaus.” 

“Would the Greeks be willing to make the exchange ?” 

“They will do anything to conciliate Sultan Mahomet.” 


DIMITRIOS IREI^E. 


123 


‘‘But is it not better to have Nicolaus in Constanti- 
nople ?” 

“Since he has been once caught, no disguise would be 
safe. His usefulness in the city is at an end.” 

“How will you communicate with the Greeks ? I am 
absolutely unwilling to treat with them ; they shall not , 
for a moment imagine that I desire any favor.” 

“I will send a letter into Constantinople this very 
night by means of an arrow, if I may have the permis- 
sion of your Highness. That letter will seem to come 
from a private source. The Greeks will make use of it, 
and, if they find Nicolaus, they will certainly offer him 
to you, and be glad to be rid of him. All I need is 
your permission to cross the lines to-night.” 

“It is granted. But are you willing to give up your 
slave thus easily ?” 

“For the common good, I am; and, after the city 
falls, there will be no lack of slaves.” 

The Sultan wrote, and, handing the paper to Selim, 
said : 

“Go, and do as you have spoken.” 

In a half hour from then, Selim had passed the lines, 
and he was on his w^ay to the city. A bow was strung 
from his shoulder, while several arrows were protruding 
from a quiver. To two of these a letter was attached. 

A black pall of darkness covered the earth ; not an 
object could be distinguished, but Selim knew the en- 
virons of Constantinople perfectly. He was now only a 
few yards from the ditch. Noiselessly and by stealth he 
had approached. Fixing one of the arrows to his bow, 
he raised it, and, in a moment, the improvised letter- 
carrier went whizzing through the air. Selim had 


124 


DIMITEIOS AJS’D IKEISTE. 


measured his distance and the strength of his bow, and 
he knew exactly how far it would reach. A few seconds 
later, the other arrow followed ; the priest had accom- 
plished his mission. 


/ 


CHAPTER XIV. 

With great anxiety, Dimitrios had waited for the end 
of the long monotonous day which had been nnnsually 
warm, and which, he hoped, would bring him an 
answer to his letter. Not a ripple had stirred 
the surface of the Bosphorus, and the vessels upon 
it had lain completely motionless, while their white 
sails flapped hither and thither, or hung lifeless 
against the masts. No breath of air had fanned 
the heated brow of the sentinels around the camp 
or the gunners on the various batteries. Forming 
a strong contrast with the universal stillness of na- 
ture, was the din of strife that filled the air. The Turkish 
cannon had poured forth deadly fire all day, which 
was feebly answered by the guns of Constantinople, but, 
instead, the dreaded Greek fire had not been idle, and 
wherever the besieged had found an opportunity of 
reaching the Turkish ships, they had loaded their pistons 
and sent the fiery dragons whizzing through the air to 
burn more than one Turkish vessel and inflict unutter- 
able torture on the soldiers and sailors of the enemy 
who were unfortunate enough to fall victims to it. 

Towards evening, the fire of the cannon had gradu- 
ally ceased, and the combatants on both sides were pre- 
paring to rest from the deadly labors of the day. More 
than one Turkish corpse had been dragged away from 
the scene of battle by comrades swearing dire vengeance 
upon the Greeks. 


126 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


Finally the long wished-for night arrived, to give rest 
to man and beast. Gradually its shades had fallen upon 
the landscape, and the towers of Constantinople were 
scarcely visible in the gloom. As the darkness of night 
had taken the place of the sweltering heat of the day, 
and a refreshing breeze was wafted from the Bosphorus 
towards the land, Selim went forth from the Turkish 
camp, protected by an order of the Sultan. Alone and 
silent he pursued his way toward the city, lost in the 
gloom of night. The Turkish soldiers must have won- 
dered what carried him abroad at that hour, but none 
dared interrogate "him, for Selim was feared by all, and 
they knew that he enjoyed the confidence of the Sultan. 

Approaching near to the ditch, until he could almost 
throw a stone into the city, he placed his fingers to his 
lips and gave a shrill and prolonged whistle. It was 
quickly answered from the ramparts, above which ap- 
peared a light in the glare of which the figure of a man 
was seen, armed with a bow and directing an arrow to- 
wards Selim, who, striking a light, held a lantern high 
above his head. The arrow was sent whizzing through 
the air and it fell at the distance of a yard to the right of 
Selim, who had followed it with his eyes as much as the 
darkness permitted. He had heard it fall, and directed 
by his light, he walked toward it. The arrow lay upon 
the ground, and another whistle from Selim announced 
that the message had reached its destination. The lights 
were extinguished and all was dark and silent as before. 

When Selim reached the Turkish camp, he proceeded 
directly to his tent. Striking a light, he examined the 
arrow and found two small letters attached to it. One 
was directed to Selim, the other to Dimitrios. In the 
former he read ; 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE. 


127 


“All efforts will be made to find Mcolaus, and, if they 
prove successful, a fiag of truce will be sent at once with 
an offer of exchange. Farewell.^’ 

Taking the letter for Dimitrios in his hand, Selim at 
once proceeded to the tent of the prisoner. As he en- 
tered, the Greek arose, and, with an anxious expression 
upon his countenance, advanced to meet his benefactor.. 

“Be of good cheer, my boy,” said Selim, “I have an 
answer to your letter. I knew it would arrive in due 
season.” 

Dimitrios grasped the paper with trembling hand and 
palpitating heart. Opening it, he read as follows ; 

“Dearest Brother ! It is impossible to describe the 
feelings of gladness that took possession of my soul, 
when I learned that you were alive. I have been ill, 
very ill, but, thank God ! this most acceptable news has 
greatly revived me. Still I shudder when I think that 
you are among the Turks, although it is with the deep- 
est feelings of gratitude towards God, that I learn that 
even there you have found a friend and protector. 
Heaven grant that Nicolaus may be discovered, and that 
I may soon embrace my brother again ! I cease not to 
pray for you, and to invoke the intercession of Holy 
Mary that you may return to me. Our friend, Morosini, 
does all in his power to console me. The Emperor is, 
also, very concerned about your safety, and he will spare 
no sacrifice to obtain your release. Have confidence, 
brother, and place your trust in God, we shall soon meet 
again. Your sister, Helena.” 

The countenance of Dimitrios brightened, as his eyes 
ran quickly over the lines. Handing the letter to Selim,, 
he said : 

“Bead, Father. Thank God, she feels consoled.” 

Selim took the letter and read it. 

“God is good, my dear son,” he said, “I feel that all 


128 


DIMITEIOS AKD IREKE. 


will be well yet. Tomorrow I will see you again, rest 
well, may the Holy Angels guard you !” 

With these words he left the tent of Dimitrios and 
retired to his own. He found a soldier awaiting him. 

‘‘Selim,” said the military, “tomorrow the army is to 
move onward, we are to approach nearer to the city. 
Constantinople is doomed. It may take a long time, 
for there is much vitality still left in the old ruin, but 
it is surely ours. I am rejoiced that we are to approach 
nearer, for this everlasting pounding away at the old 
walls is beginning to be tedious ; it is like wasting pow- 
der. Moreover, I am anxious for a little sport.” 

“You may have more than you expect,” replied Selim, 
“and, besides, you may be badly scorched before you 
reach the city, if you ever succeed in going so far. Don’t 
forget the Greek fire.” 

“It is the only thing I am afraid of,” answered the 
soldier, “but tell me, Selim, (you seem to know all), where 
did they ever get that infernal thing from ?” 

“The Greek fire was invented about the year 667, by 
a certain Callinicus, of Heliopolis, and brought by him 
to Constantinople.” 

“The fiends devour him ! what is the accursed stuff 
made of ?” 

“It is a composition of naphtha, pitch and sulphur.” 

“By Mahomet ! They say that nothing resists it.” 

“You are right. Water does not extinguish it, and it 
holds on to wood tenaciously. If it ever takes hold of 
you, I assure you, that you will long to be in paradise 
with Mahomet !” 

“Confound those Greeks ! If I ever penetrate into Con 
stantinople, I will give them as much Turkish fire as 
they can digest, and let them tell me then which is 


DIMITEIOS AJq-D IREJS'E. 


129 


worse, Turkish or Greek fire. But I was going to forget 
what I had come for. Hassan has arrived at the camp, 
and he was asking for you. He was as hungry as a wolf, 
and he devoured nearly a whole ox.” 

“Is Hassan here ? Bring him to me at once.” 

Selim entered his tent, and the soldier departed, 
AVithin a brief period, the. curtain at the entrance was 
raised, and a Turk of fierce visage, with an immense 
sword at his side, stood before Selim. 

“Fortuny,” exclaimed the latter in pure Castilian, 
^^Que harharidad! how unexpected this is!” 

“I am exceedingly glad to see you. Father,” answered 
Fortuny in the Catalan dialect, and, continuing in Casti- 
lian, he added : “but let us converse in a low tone, porque 
las paredes oyen, the walls have ears.” 

“Let us be seated,” answered Selim in a subdued 
voice, taking the hint, “and relate to me what you have 
heard and seen.” 

Both men sat down on a carpet, in Turkish fashion, 
crossing their legs. 

“Father Gregorio,” began Fortuny, “Alas I I have no 
agreeable news to communicate to you. Nicolaus brought 
himself into serious difficulty by a most atrocious deed.” 

“I have heard it, Fortuny. Poor unfortunate Leila I 
I know it all.” 

“You know of the death of Leila ? How could you 
have heard it ?” 

“Forego that question for the present, you shall hear 
later, but tell me now where you have been, and how 
you came hither.” 

Fortuny related his last interview with Nicolaus, and 
continued : 

“I was determined to go to Thessalonica, even if Nico- 


130 


DIM;ITKI0S IREis-E. 


laus had not requested me to do so, but I left him under 
the impression that I was undertaking the journey for 
the sake of the gold he had promised. I left Constanti- 
nople shortly before the siege began, on an Aragonez& 
yessel, which, with an excellent wind, soon landed me 
at Thessalonica. My first thought was to seek for the 
family of Diogenes, and I consequently directed my 
steps towards the Church of the Holy Apostles. I looked 
for the house and found it without difficulty. But, im- 
agine my cruel disappointment, when I discovered that 
it was uninhabited and without the slightest sign of life. 
I enquired from every possible source, but no one could 
give me the slightest clue to the whereabouts of Diogenes 
and his children. All I could learn was that strangers 
had been there, but, that, a few days since, they had 
left the place in company of the Turkish escort that 
had brought them. Ho one could tell whither they had 
gone. My search had been vain. As quickly as I could, 
I returned to the shores of the Bosphorus.’^ 

‘‘Poor Dimi trios !” exclaimed Selim. “Fortuny, say 
nothing to him concerning your voyage to Thessalonica.’’ 

“It is useless to caution me, for I will have no oppor- 
tunity of seeing Dimitrios.” 

“You are mistaken, my friend, Dimi trios is here. It 
is from him that I learned of the sad fate of the woman 
Leila.” 

“Dimitrios here ? How can that be ?” 

Selim related what had occured, and continued : 

“Fortuny, my faithful friend, we must find Diogenes ; 
you will help me, will you not ?” 

“If I should have to sail to the land of the Antipodes, 
if any such monsters exist, I will find them. That is, 
if they are in the land of the living.” 


DIMITEIOS AND IKENE. 


131 


‘‘Well said, my trusty Fortuny; I know you will suc- 
ceed, for you have yet to fail.’’ 

“Do not flatter too much. Father Gregorio, I do what 
I can. But let us now speak of mor§ agreeable matters. 
I know that you are very abstemious, hut I have an elas- 
tic stomach. I have concealed under my jacket a flask 
of delightful Spanish wine. Ah ! when I look at the 
sparkling liquid, I seem to sit in the shadow of La Yirgen 
del Pilar, at Zaragoza, where I lived for many years ; I 
am home again in Barcelona, on the blue waters of the 
Mediterranean, when I quaff the delightful fluid.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Fortuny, w^hat are you doing? If 
a Turk should happen to come in at this moment and 
find you drinking wine, we would be ruined. It w^ould 
be as had as to find you eating pork.” 

“No fear I Father, they will never find me eating 
pork, whenever I have anything else ; but, as for wine, 
they quaff it themselves occasionally on the sly, when 
they think the Prophet in paradise is looking in another 
direction and he has not his eyes upon them.” 

“That makes no difference. As a rule the Turks ob- 
serve this law of the Koran with scrupulous exactitude 
and you will surely draw upon yourself their enmity if 
they find you transgressing it.” 

“But it only takes a second. Father Gregorio,” and 
before the priest could interpose, Fortuny had brought 
the bottle to his lips and taken a strong draught. 

Hastily concealing the flask, he said : 

“Now, Father, I am ready to go to the end of the 
world, yea, to fight Mahomet himself if he were to come 
on earth. But, you know, I must have my wine, as much 
as the German must have his beer.” 


132 


DIMITRIOS AKl) lEEKE. 


‘‘Yon said you wanted to speak of something agree- 
able ; what had you to say ?” 

“0 ! yes. I had mentioned the word Antipodes, do you 
believe in the existence of those beings ?” 

“A strange question, Fortuny.” 

“You know. Father, I delight in those questions. I 
have sailed down the African coast on one of the ships 
sent out by Prince Henry, the Havigator,and it is natural 
that my mind should occasionally revert to a topic, wliich, 
at present, occupies much attention.” 

“Well,” replied Selim, “there are differences of opin- 
ion, some believing in the existence of Antipodes, while 
others maintain that this opinion is heretical. Listen to 
the words of the famous Cardinal d’Ailly, Bishop of 
Cambrai, who died some years since, in 1420. In his 
Imago Mundi — Image of the World, he writes : 

“ ‘The earth is spherical, and the western ocean re- 
latively small. Aristotle maintains against Ptolomy, 
that more than a fourth of the earth is inhabited, and 
Averrhoes holds the same opinion. The Stagyrite affirms 
also that the sea is small between the western coasts of 
Spain and the eastern shores of India. There is here a 
question not of Spain proper, but of Spain extended, or 
Africa. Seneca assures us that this sea can be crossed 
in a few days with a favorable wind.’ ” 

“The Cardinal thus believes that the earth is round, 
that the eastern shores of India are west of Spain, and, 
the consequence is, that he believes that the other side 
of the earth is inhabited, and that, therefore. Antipodes 
exist.” 

“Who, did you say, was the author of the work you 
cited?” 

“Cardinal Pierre d’Ailly, or, as they call him in Latin, 
Petrus de Alliaco.” 


DIMITRIOS AJs^D IREJsE. 


133 


‘^Father Gregorio, I have heard of that author ere this. 
It is very strange that joyi should recall his name. I 
had almost forgotten a conversation held some six months 
ago, which made a deep impression upon me. You re- 
member that I once arrived very suddenly in Adrianople, 
as suddenly as I came hither to-day? Well, I had just 
come from the ^gean sea, on a Genoese vessel bound 
for Pera. I hoarded her at Crete, and we stopped for 
some time at Tinos to take on a cargo of figs and grapes, 
besides a lot of silk that the vessel was to take hack to 
Italy. There was a young lad on board with whom I 
became very imtimate, and we had many an interesting 
conversation. I found him a most intelligent youth and 
he said that he had studied at the University of Pavia. 
One evening, just after leaving Tinos, we were leaning 
against the bulwarks, engaged in discussing cosmography. 
Cristoforo, for thus was the boy known to all his ship- 
mates, Cristoforo, suddenly pointing towards the west, 
exclaimed : T have a presentiment that my name has a 
deep significance. Yes, I feel that the day will come 
when I shall carry Christ to the inhabitants of unknown 
regions beyond the Dark Ocean.’ Father Gregorio, never 
in my life have I seen a face that bore so much the 
marks of inspiration as the countenance of young 
Christoforo Colombo did at that moment. Turning to 
me, and taking in his' hand a book he had been holding 
under his arms, he said : ‘Here, Fortuny, here is a won- 
derful book. It was written by Cardinal Petrus de Alli- 
aco. I simply devour it. It contains wonderful things.’* 

♦There exists in the Columbian Library, at Seville, a copy of the Imago 
Mundi, printed between 14S0 and 1483, thus a few years before the discovery 
of America. The margins are filled with notes by the hand of Columbus him- 
self. It is by no means improbable that he was already acquainted with this 
author in the early years of his life. 


134 


DIMITRIOS AND IKENE. 


Your citing the words of this author has recalled this 
conversation to my mind. Young Colombo was a firm 
believer in the existence of Antipodes. We parted from 
each other at Pera, and I have never heard of him since.’’ 

“Well, Fortuny,” said Selim, “I too believe that the 
Antipodes are no fable, and I am not the only one. 
When I was in Barcelona, I met a young Dominican 
friar from the house of his order in Salamanca, the con- 
vent of San Esteban, and he assured me that it was an 
opinion shared by several of his Fathers. However, 
Fortuny, we have had enough of this learned, or, as you 
are pleased to call it, agreeable cenversation for the 
present. You must be tired, I surely am, for it is late. 
You may share my tent.” 

Fortuny thanked his host, and, in a short time, both 
friends were lost in sleep. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Long ere the day dawned, the Turkish army had 
moved nearer to the city, so that when the first rays of 
the sun broke upon it, the astonished eyes of the Greeks 
beheld the chaxige that had taken place noiselessly, and 
as if by magic. Even the Sultan’s pavilion had been 
removed without difficulty, as it rested upon a system of 
rollers. The besieged had scarcely time to recover from 
their surprise, when the fourteen Turkish batteries 
opened fire upon them. In the camp the noise was 
deafening; the very earth trembled. The Greeks en- 
deavored to reply, but their fire was feeble, for no 
sooner had they mounted their cannon in one spot, than 
the old walls shook to such an extent that they were 
obliged to desist. However, whenever a detachment of 
Turks happened to approach near enough, they would 
sling their dreaded Greek fire at them, thus sending 
many a Turk to the other world. They also succeeded 
in setting fire to more than one of the mediaeval war- 
engines which the Turks had been endeavoring to place 
into position. The distant report of cannon showed 
also that things were lively on the water, especially at 
the entrance to the Golden Horn, which was defended 
by the Greek ships. 

Dimitrios heard the reports of cannon, and he chafed 
with impatience at the thought that he was powerless 
to aid his country. He could not leave his tent before 
the arrival of Selim, and, though the sun was already 


±6Q 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


higli in the heavens, the latter had not yet visited him. 
Dimitrios grew uneasy. Had something occurred ? Of 
course, he knew that the army had approached nearer 
to Constantinople, for his own tent had been moved, to* 
gether with the rest, and he had been obliged to assist. 
The thought of making his escape had presented itself 
to his mind, but the evident uselessness of the attempt, 
and, above all, the fear that he should injure Selim, de- 
terred him. While many painful thoughts were passing 
through his mind, the door of his tent suddenly opened 
and a guard entered, saying : 

‘T have orders to conduct you to the tent of Selim.” 

Dimitrios accompanied the soldier, and, in a few mo- 
ments, he stood before his friend, who thus addressed 
him: 

‘‘Dimitrios, I have taxed your patience, but import- 
ant matters demanded my attention; however, I sent 
for you as soon as possible.” 

“Father, is there any news from the city? I am 
growing anxious.” 

“Be not alarmed, my son ; you know that such mat- 
ters require time. Exercise patience now as a penance 
for your rashness. If, within a few days, Nicolaus is 
not discovered, I have other plans. Sit down and let 
us converse. We are comparatively safe here, for the 
cannon of the Greeks do little damage.” 

“Father Gregorious, 1 would converse with you on a 
very serious topic. Our life is so uncertain, it is well 
to be on the safe side. I have, thus far, never had a 
doubt of the righteousness of our cause — I mean that of 
the Greek Church. I have studied history care- 
fully, and all seemed so clear. But, I cannot say why 
of late a strange feeling of inquietude has come over 


DIMITKIOS AKD IREI^E. 


137 


me, and the thought forces itself upon my mind : sup- 
pose, after all, that we are wrong, and that the Latins are 
right, as the Emperor and the Patriarch think. I men- 
tioned this to an archimandrite of my acquaintance not 
long ago, and he told me not to trouble my mind about it, 
that such doubts would come. But this has not satis- 
fied me. Whenever I am alone, my thoughts necessa- 
rily fall back upon this subject, even in spite of the in- 
expressible anguish I am enduring from anxiety for 
Irene, and fears for Helena. I know that you are a man 
of God ; can you not relieve my mind 

‘‘My dear boy,” replied the priest, “if you felt sure 
that the Greek Church is schismatic, and that in the 
Koman Church alone the true Church of Christ is to be 
found, would you hesitate to make a change ?”' 

“Not one single instant,” replied the young man, “even 
though it were necessary to sacrifice that which is dear- 
est to me on earth : the love of Irene, and of my sister, 
Helena.” 

“You are a brave boy, but let us hope that such a sac- 
rifice wdll not be required. Did you ever pray that the 
Holy Spirit might enlighten you ?” 

“It is my constant prayer.” 

“You shall have that light, my child ; doubt it not.. 
In this matter there is really only one thing to settle, 
only one vital question, and that is this : Is the Pope of 
Kome the Vicar of Christ ; are all Christians bound to. 
live in communion with him, and submit to his decrees? 
All else is secondary. If this question is proved, all 
has been proved.” 

“You know. Father, I have been taught to look upon 
the Pope as a usurper and a tyrant.” 


138 


DIMITMOS AND IRENE. 


know it, my son, but it is not too late to be unde- 
ceived.’’ 

“Well, I am willing to be enlightened.” 

“Thus far, Dimitrios, you have studied only from one 
standpoint, that of the Greek Church ; but, in this mat- 
ter, we must go back to the time before the schism, 
when we were all one, when we all believed the same? 
when we were all subject to the Pope. We must see 
what all believed then, why they believed it, and why 
some changed their belief and broke with the Pope.” 

As Selim finished the last words, loud shouts and 
cries of joy were heard on the outside. He rushed 
to the door and enquired for the reason of the tnmult. 

“We have hit the mark,” cried a veteran; “the tough 
old walls are beginning to yield.” 

“Is there a breach ?” asked Selim. 

“Ho, not yet, but large pieces are falling. See ! there 
it goes,” and, as he spoke, he pointed towards the city. 

Selim gazed and saw that pieces of the wall between 
the Palace of the Hebdomon, in the suburb of Blacher- 
nae, and the gate of Polyandrion, were flying in splinters. 

“This looks sei’ious,” he said. 

Again he re-entered the tent, and, addressing Bimit- 
rios, said : 

“It was only a better shot than the ordinary ones. 
I thought that the whole wall was coming down. If 
you desire, I will proceed.” 

“You will oblige me greatly. Father, but will you 
first allow me to ask you a question ?” 

“Certainly, my son.” 

“Does the Latin Church recognize the validity of our 
orders ?” 

“Undoubtedly. The valid administration of the Sacra- 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


139 


Tnenfc of Holy Orders does not depend upon jurisdiction. 
If the one who ordains is truly a Bishop, and he has the 
intention of doing what the Church of Christ intends ; if, 
at the same time, all other essential requisites are pres- 
ent, the candidate is validly ordained, even though the or- 
daining Bishop be a heretic or a schismatic. For that rea- 
son the Church did not require a second ordination in 
the case of those Greek Bishops and priests who re- 
turned to the communion of the See of Rome. For in- 
stance: there is Cardinal Joannes Bessarion. This 
learned man was born at Trebizond. He must be now 
about sixty years of age. Well, in 1423, Bessarion be- 
came a monk of St. Basil. In 1437, John Paleologos 
made him Bishop of Hicaea. He accompanied the Emp- 
eror to Italy, and he has remained there ever since, en- 
joying the favor of the Holy See, so much so, that Pope 
Eugene IV. conferred upon him the dignity of Cardi- 
nal. I am sure that Bessarion would become Pope, were 
he not a Greek.” 

“Thank you. Father ; now proceed, for our time may 
be limited.” 

“If we ascend to the beginning of the schism, which 
was under Photius, in the middle of the ninth century, 
we find that, until then, the Greeks had acknowledged 
the supremacy of the Pope. But why ? I will seek for 
the answer to this question among those whom you re- 
vere and love, the early Fathers of the Greek Church.” 

“'Do the Greek Fathers teach the Supremacy of the 
Roman Pontiff ?” 

“They do, my son. Listen. You subscribe to the 
Council of Chalcedon. Well, this Council was presided 
over by the legates of Pope Leo. The Fathers of the 
Council call the Church of Rome the head of the 


140 


DIMITKIOS AKD IREi^E. 


churclies, and, after the reading of a letter of Pope Leo.,, 
they all exclaimed : ‘We all believe thus . . . Peter 

has thus spoken through Leo.’ They also declare tha^j. 
Leo ‘has been constituted interpreter of the voice of 
Blessed Peter to all men.’ The Greek historian, Sozo- 
men, tells us that the decision of the Church of the Ro- 
mans in a matter of faith, was accepted by all the 
churches of the East. Ascending higher in antiquity,, 
we hear the Council of Ephesus, in 431, assure us 
that it was guided by Pope Celestine, whom it calls 
Our Most Holy Father.”’ 

“From the Greek historian, Socrates, in the fifth cen- 
tury, we learn that the Pope was appealed to as judge, 
in the case of St. Athanasius. The same is told us by 
Theodoret, also a Greek Father. St. Cyril of Alexan- 
dria, calls the Pope the Archbishop of the whole IJni- 
yerse. Your great St. John Chrysostom, Patriarch of 
Constantinople, appealed to Pope Innocent against his 
persecutors. St. Gregory of Hazianzen, writes: ‘The 
faith (of Rome) was of old, and still is now, right, 
binding the whole West by the saving word, as is just 
in her who presides over all, reverencing the whole 
harmonious teaching of God.’ ” 

“The Greek Council of Sardica, in the year 347, 
teaches clearly that an appeal may be had to the Bishop 
of Rome against the decision of other Bishops.” 

“St. IrensBus, in the second century, speaks of the 
Church of Rome as the greatest of the churches ; pos- 
sessing a more powerful principality ; with which it is 
necessary that every church agree ; and in which Apos- 
tolic tradition- has been preserved. I might thus con- 
tinue, but let what I have said suffice.” 

“Father, you have given me great information. I was 


DIMITRIOS IREJ^E. 


141 


neyer acquainted with these citations. You have opened 
before my eyes a new field of research ; if ever I find 
leisure to devote myself to study, I will, most assuredly, 
explore it. But, tell me, what is your opinion of the 
beginning of the separation or schism 

“If I may be outspoken, I must assure you that I 
think the cause lies primarily, and, as it were, in 
germ, in the jealousy which existed between the East 
and the West. From time immemorial, almost, there 
has been a tendency in Constantinople to place the Pa- 
triarch of that city on an equal footing with the Bishop 
of Eome. The final development arrived when Photius 
became Patriarch. This most learned man of his time 
was at first an intruder, and not the rightful Patriarch. 
The schism, begun under him, was, for a time, healed, but 
it was renewed again some years later, about 1053, when 
Michael Cerularius succeeded in withdrawing the east- 
ern Bishops from communion with the West, on ac- 
count of ■ a discrepancy in doctrine, and a few minor 
differences in discipline. But, once more, this separa- 
tion from the See of Eome was an innovation, and en- 
tirely opposed to the teaching of the early Fathers ana 
the Councils.” 

“After all, then,” said Dimitrios, “perhaps the Emp- 
eror is right. Father, I will continue to reflect most 
seriously upon this subject.” 

He had scarcely ended the sentence, when another 
wild shout arose, which reached from one end of the 
line to the other. 

“Let us go out,” said Selim. 

Leaving the tent, they took up their position on a 
commanding eminence near by, whence they could over- 
look the entire scene. The balls from the large brass 


142 ‘ DIMITEIOS AlTD IREKE. 

cannon were striking hard and fast npon the wall of 
which, now and anon, a huge piece would fall. 

‘‘Poor Greeks !” said Selim, “their end is nigh. Do 
you know what the present Pope, Nicolas V., wrote 
to them some time ago ? These are his words : ‘Long^ 
time have you abused the patience of God, by persisting 
in your schism. God is waiting, as in the parable, to 
see whether the fig-tree, which has been tended with 
such care, will, at last, yield its fruit ; hut, if within 
three years, it shall bear none, the tree will be hewn 
down, and the Greeks will be overwhelmed with the 
justice of God.’ Do not these words seem sadly pro- 
phetic ?” 

Dimitrios could not help remembering the day when 
he first met Father Gregorios on the threshold of St. 
Sophia ; his venerable aspect had brought to mind so 
forcibly the Prophet Jeremias, and now, as he heard 
those dreadful words uttered by his lips, they seemed 
to fall upon Constantinople as those of the Prophets of 
the Old Testament had fallen upon J erusalem. 

“My poor, unfortunate country!” lamented Dimitrios, 
“is there no salvation for thee ? Father,” he continued, 
“I love your society, but I long to re-enter Constantino- 
ple, but, alas I hope is dying out in my heart. Tell 
me. Father, would I injure you if I should effect my es- 
cape ?” 

“No, my son, you would not injure me, for I could 
show that you escaped -without my co-operation. Be- 
sides, the Turks are not likely to trouble themselves 
concerning an individual prisoner, whom they are in- 
clined to look upon as a fool ; even had they a desire to 
injure me, they would abstain from doing so, for I am 
too useful to them.” 


DIMITRIOS AOT IREiq-E. 


143 ^ 


‘^See exclaimed Selim, poiuting towards the city, 
^‘what is that? Do you see that multitude of men? 
The Greeks are issuing forth from Constantinople.” 

Dimitrios looked in the direction indicated, and, verily, 
proceeding from the gate Polyandrion, over an impro- 
vised bridge, marched a small army in battle array. 
Spears and pikes glittered in the sunshine, which caused 
the armor of the soldiers to glisten like polished silver. 
Like one compact mass they advanced. Immediately 
the Turkish cannon were directed upon the multitude. 
The guns from Constantinople belched forth flashes of 
fire and clouds of smoke in reply, as if heedless of th 
danger to the walls. The Turkish balls flew over the 
heads of the Greeks as they advanced. 

‘‘Bravo! Bravo!” exclaimed Dimitrios, “oh, how I 
wish I were there !” 

“Eestrain your ardor, my young man,” said Selim, 
calmly.“ See ! a Turkish regiment is forming in line of 
battle ; there will be a hand-to-hand encounter. Look ! 
the Sultan has come out of his pavilion. Beside him 
stands Mustapha Pacha, one of his trusty servants. The 
affair is serious, Dimitrios.” 

Meanwhile, the Greeks marched steadily onward,, 
heedless of the Turkish fire. The Standard of the 
Emperor floated above the multitude; beside it, flutter- 
ing in the breeze, was that of Genoa. 

“Come, Father, come,” said Dimitrios, “can we not 
advance to the front ? I will, at least,^ behold the scene 
in which I cannot act a part.” 

“I will go to the front,” said Selim, “I am always 
where danger is greatest; my services may be required 
but I cannot take you with me. It would be considered 
treason.” 


144 


DIMITEIOS AKD IREKE. 


‘‘At least, let me stand where I can see the fight. 
May I not place myself near yonder tree 

Dimitrios pointed to a tree at one of the outposts, be- 
side which stood a horse, from which the rider had 
shortly before dismounted. 

Selim beckoned to a Turk. The latter advanced ; it 
was Tortuny. 

“Hassan,” said Selim, in a loud voice, and in the 
Turkish language, with a significant twinkle of his eye, 
“I confide to you this man ; take him where he may be- 
hold the destruction of his countrymen, but remember, 
your life shall answer for him.” 

Selim pointed to the tree. 

Fortuny, drawing his scimitar, took Dimitrios by the 
arm and led him to the place indicated. 

“Where are you going with that Greek, Hassan 
queried a Turk, “are you about to cut off his head ?” 

“No, but he is going to see other heads cut off.” 

The Turk laughed. When Fortuny and Dimitrios 
were alone, the former whispered : 

“Fear nothing, young man, I will not harm thee.” 

They reached the tree. Dimitrios gazed in the direc- 
tion of the combatants, who were fast approaching each 
other. The eyes of all the spectators were turned in the 
same direction. Suddenly Dimitrios disengaged him- 
self from the light grasp of Fortuny, and, with one 
bound, he sprang towards the horse. The seeming 
Turk, noticing this, wheeled around, and, raising his 
scimitar, as if about to strike, rushed upon Dimitrios, 
but, in his haste, he stumbled and fell heavily, as if by 
accident. Meanwhile, in less time than it takes to 
think of it, Dimitrios had loosed the animal and sprung 
into the saddle. Kicking it under its ribs, he darted 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


145 


off towards tlie city with the speed of lightning. Hear- 
ing the sound of horses’ hoofs, the Turks turned their 
heads, and their surprise was so great, that, for a mo- 
ment, they stood, as it were, bewildered. In another 
moment, volleys of shot and showers of arrows were 
sent flying after the fugitive. They flew over his head 
and whizzed past him, but he heeded them not. Sud- 
denly he turned, and in an oblique line, galloped straight 
towards the advancing Greeks. More than a dozen 
Turks, on fleet Arab steeds, were in pursuit, but the 
•Greek was out of their reach. Onward he flew, as 
though borne by the wind, his ringlets gracefully float- 
ing in the breeze. His friends had noticed him. In 
an instant their arrows flew against his pursuers, w'ho 
dared advance no further, and, with rage within their 
hearts, abandoned the chase. Dimitries had been 
recognized, and, amid a roaring outburst of applause, 
he reached the ranks of his countrymen, and, in another 
moment, the Emperor had embraced him, as though he 
were a long lost son. 


ClIAPTEE XVL 


Dimitries had scarcely reached the ranks than he en- 
treated the Emperor to allow him to take part in the 
fray. Unmindful of the danger from which he had just 
escaped, his ardent nature spurred him on to cast him- 
self into the midst of new perils. His armor had been 
taken from him in the Turkish camp, and he wore noth- 
ing save the few pieces of clothing that had been left him 
and an old garment that Selim had obtained for him. 
The Emperor would not hear of the proposition, and 
sternly commanded him to return to the city, with a 
guard of horsemen whom he detailed to accompany him. 
Obedient to the commands of his Sovereign, but with 
disappointment in his heart, Dimitrios turned his horse’s 
head toward the city. However, the thought of so soon 
meeting his sister consoled him. He had proceeded half 
way, when his curiosity impelled him to turn. Clouds of 
smoke and dust filled the air, loud shouts could be heard 
in the distance, swords were hashing right and left over 
the heads of the soldiers. The Greeks and Turks were 
in a close engagement. Dimitrios and his companions 
halted, they could not proceed on their way while Greci- 
an blood was flowing like water. Gladly would our hero 
have rushed back to take part in the encounter, but the 
positive command of his master held him to the spot. 
His eyes were riveted upon the combatants and the fire 
that .sparkled from them was sufficient evidence of what 
was passing in his heart. At that distance, it was al- 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


147 


most impossible to distinguisli the Greeks from their 
enemies, except by their position. The battle-field seemed 
to be one seething mass of humanity. Evidently the 
Greeks were endeavoring to force back their enemies up- 
on the great battery which was now silent, for, although 
the latter were more numerous, they wore little or no 
armor, and they found themselver unable to withstand 
the ponderous weapons of the Greeks. For a moment 
the Turks fell back; the Greeks, profiting by every inch 
of ground yielded to them, advanced. Dimitries, perceiv- 
ing this, could not refrain from exclaiming : 

^‘Bravo ! my brave brothers, onward for Christ and 
Byzantium !” 

His enthusiasm, however, was but momentary, for, lo ! 
Turks innumerable were advancing in the rear and on 
the flanks of their comrades. The ranks of the enemy 
opened by a sudden movement, so that the way to the 
coveted battery lay clear before the Greeks. 

‘‘Dimitrios,” exclaimed one of the veterans who stood 
beside him, ‘fit is a fearful ruse. Nothing can save our 
brave men against such frightful odds but a hasty re- 
treat. If the Greeks, flushed by their first successes, 
advance, the Turks will certainly close in their rear, 
and, thus hemmed in, the Emperor and every man will 
perish.” 

The speaker forgot how hard it was to conquer Greeks 
by ruse or stratagem. 

“See !” died out Dimitrios, “they are fast retreating, 
with the Turks following. See our brave cavalry, how 
it protects the flanks, striking right and left into the 
enemy. Let us not abide here, the Emperor would be 
displeased.” 

Turning their horses, they galloped off towards the 


148 


DIMITRIOS AKD IRENE. 


city. Before the ditch they halted. The Greeks were 
still retreating, followed by the triumphant Turks. They 
had approached near to the city. It was a ruse on the 
part of the former. Suddenly the Byzantines make a 
stand. The Turks, surprised, fall back an instant* The 
combat begins anew. Far in the rear of the opposing 
hosts, huge columns of the enemy are moving forward, 
to assist the vanguard. But, lo I fiery serpents are seen 
to wing their way through the air from the walls of the 
city ; they fall upon the terrified foeman. The Turkish 
ranks are broken ; for a moment the utmost confusion 
prevails among the enemy. A wild shout is heard to the 
left, Dimi trios turns his head, the standard of Venice is 
fluttering in the breeze. 

‘^God wills it, advance !” sounds over the din of battle, 
and the old war-cry of the Crusaders seems to animate 
the Venetians with superhuman ardor. Though only a 
few hundred men strong, they advance to meet the veter- 
ans of Mahomet, followed by a thousand Greeks, who, like 
themselves, have issued forth from the nearest gate to 
the south. Few men remain upon the land wall, most 
of the others are engaged on the side of the Propontis. 

The Turks, perceiving the new comers, divided their 
forces in the van, but the vacant space was immediately 
filled by the onrushing columns from the rear. It 
was impossible to withstand the increasing numbers of 
the enemy. The Venetians fought like lions. At their 
head, a man of giant form 'was dealing deadlj^ blows up- 
on the heads of the infidels, his sword fell right and 
left, claiming countless victims on either side. 

‘Tt is Morosini !” exclaimed Dimitrios, who knew the 
armor of his friend, ‘‘Morosini ! I never knew he was 


DIMITSIOS AKD IREi^E. 


149 


such a lion. The gentle, philosophical Morosini, what 
a hero 

He w'ould have flown to the assistance of his friend, 
had not the command of the Emperor kept ringing in 
his ears. Meanwhile, the deadly Greek fire was doing its 
work, penetrating through the openings in the armor of 
those who were thus protected, inflicting inexpressi- 
ble torture and consuming those who were unarmored. 
But all was unayailing against the overwhelming num- 
bers of the Turks. The Christians, seeing the impossi- 
bility of keeping up the unequal contest, slowly retreated 
toward the walls with their faces to the enemy, in order 
to afford an opportunity to the Greek cannon and fire 
to thin their ranks. The Turks, seeing that they were 
being drawn further from their camp, halted and began 
their retreat. The battle was at an end. The ground was 
strewn with the dead and the' dying, heartrending shrieks 
of agony filled the air, broken swords and helmets 
lay scattered in all directions. The wounded might not 
be forgotten. There was, perhaps, no nation in mediaeval 
times which was so solicitous for its wounded as Byzan- 
tium. A corps of surgeons and ambulances was never 
w^anting, and the bearer company received a gold piece 
for every, disabled soldier W’hom it brought off the field 
after a battle that had been lost. On this occasion, in 
the midst of the fight, the surgeons and ambulances 
might be seen moving among the combatants, carrying off, 
as soon as possible, every wounded man to the rear, and 
wdien the Greeks retreated, the disabled were placed in 
the centre and thus protected, so that few, if any, fell into 
the hands of the Turks. How that the fight was over, 
the wounded were all removed into the city. Dimitrios 
and his companions had crossed the bridge and entered 


150 


DIMITEIOS AND IRENE. 


the gate of Polyandrion as soon as it became evident that 
the battle was at an end, for he feared the displeasure of 
the Emperor if he should be found outside the walls. 

Instead of immediately returning to his home, he pro- 
ceeded to the gate, where he knew Morosini would enter. 
He had but a short time to wait, when the Venetians 
rushed in. Morosini did not observe his friend, until 
the latter rode up to him, calling him by name. 

“Great Heavens ! Dimi trios, have you fallen from the 
skies 

“No, my hero, you -would better ask if I have risen 
from the ground, for have I not been buried in the 
captivity of the Turks 

“And who broke your bands, reckless boy 

“i effected my escape, but I -will tell you later. How 
is Helena ?” 

“Dimitrios, this will be the happiest day of poor Hel- 
ena's life. She has pined away ever since your sudden 
disappearance, and had she not received your letter, I 
fear the worst would have occurred. As it is, she is still 
very wxak.*’ 

“Vincent, I can not return home in this guise, will 
you not procure me clothing ?” 

“Certainly, friend, go to the Hebdomon, I will send 
you all you need.” 

“Those Turkish brutes stole my beautiful armor that 
had newly been made.” 

“Never mind your armor, thank God and the Madonna 
that your life has been saved.” 

“Has Nicolaus been found ?” 

“No ; the rascal has completely disappeared! The city 
has been searched in all directions, but all was fruitless. 
It is all the same now, you are home again.” 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


151 


“Home again,” repeated Dimitrios, with a tone of sad- 
ness in his voice, “but, alas ! for how long ?” 

“Drive away those sad reflections, Dimitrios, and leave 
the future to God.” 

“Farewell, my friend,” answered the Greek, and he 
galloped off towards the palace. 

Within an hour, Morosini and his friend were stand- 
ing before the door of the latter’s house. The heart of 
Dimitrios beat violently, for, though he was rejoiced at 
the thought of meeting Helena, he could not restrain a 
certain feeling of fear and a presentiment of ill, which 
frequently takes possession of a nervous temperament like 
his. They enter the portal. How familiar is the scene ! 
The events of the past few days seem like a dream. 
There stands the fotintain scattering the spray of its 
cool water in all directions, beside it is the marble seat 
upon which Dimitrios and his sister reposed on the morn- 
ing when the life of Mcolaus Lecapenos seemed to hang 
suspended on an uncertain thread, the will of the Em- 
peror. Suddenly the door opens. It is Helena ! How 
pale and wan since last we met her I She sees Dimitrios, 
and with a cry of joy, she rushes towards him. Another 
moment, and brother and sister are locked in close em- 
brace. 

“0 ! my brother,” she exclaimed, “my lost brother, 
God has brought thee back to me. How can I ever thank 
Him ? How couldst thou be so reckless ? I have learned 
all from thy letter, but what suspense and anxiety did 
my soul pass through, until that blessed message of joy 
reached me !” 

“My sister,” said Dimitrios, gently disengaging him- 
self from her embrace, “your health has suffered much, 
I see ; but you will soon recover ; let us thank God that 


152 


DIMITRIOS AiyD IRENE. 


He wlio delivered Daniel from the lions’ den, has deigned 
to save me from the cruelty of the Turks. But, alas ! 
poor Irene ! where is Irene ? Helena, day and night her 
image haunts me, and my heart is harassed by fear.” 

‘‘Calm your anxiety, dearest brother, for I have the 
firm confidence that the Almighty Power of Him who 
protected you in the midst of peril, will suffer no harm 
to befall Irene.” 

Morosini, having now beheld the happy re-union of 
brother and sister, deemed fit to retire in order not to 
encroach upon their joy. Divining his intention, Helena 
exclaimed : 

“Morosini, do not leave us. You are now one of the 
family, you have been to me a second brother, stay and 
share our happiness.” . . * . . . • 

It was evening. The exciting day was over, and the 
red glow of sunset illuminated the western horizon, as 
Morosini, having excused himself on the plea of urgent 
business, left Dimitrios and Helena to each other’s soci- 
ety. The deadly combat had caused a lull in the bom- 
bardment, and Constantinople seemed to breathe more 
freely, though in many a home there was sadness and 
grief for the dead that had fallen. More than one heart 
was breaking as the sun sank to rest at the end of a day 
which long since has been blotted from the pages of his- 
tory, but which then stood marked in letters of blood, 
upon the tablets of Byzantium’s memory. More than 
one young widow shed tears that evening for the hus- 
band that would never return, and the babe, as it nestled 
close to the aching breast of its mother, slept soundly 
in the blissful unconsciousness that war had rendered it 
fatherless. The aged father knelt beside the bier of him, 
whom, years before, he had cradled on his knee, but who, 


DIMITKIOS Ai^D IREis^E. 


153 


cut down in tlie flower of liis manhood, had preceded 
him to the silent grave, though he had fallen for his coun- 
try’s sake, fallen as heroes fall. The mother, greater 
than whose love there is no earthly love, gazed with tear- 
stained eyes upon the face of the boy she had nurtured 
in his infancy, having given him his life mid dire suf- 
ferings, upon the face of the son, once a babe, whom she 
had fed with her milk. But, O cruel death ! thou tyrant 
of the human race, thou avenger of the flrst injury in- 
flicted by man upon the Deity, thou hast conquered ; 
there lies thy victim ! There lies a flower from one of 
old Byzantium’s trees; its young heart has ceased to beat, 
no more doth glow within its veins the fervor of Byzan- 
tium’s blood, but weep not, mother, for the dead, for 
greater ills await the living. Thy son has fallen, but on 
earth his sorrows ere ended. See you not how calm and 
peaceful is his brow in death ? Weep rather, mother, 
weep for thy living ones, weep for thyself, weep for the 
babe still unborn, for Byzantium’s doom is sealed. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


Several days had elapsed since the return of Dimit- 
Tios to his home. The siege had been carried on with 
increased vigor by the Turks, who were daily approach- 
ing nearer to the ill-fated city. Their cannon continued 
to pour massive stones against the walls, which, in sev- 
eral places, began to give signs of yielding. The cannon 
of the defenders of the city grew more useless as time 
went on, on account of the increasing weakness of the 
walls. The end could not be doubtful. The Sultan, 
assured of victory, absolutely refused to listen to any 
terms ; nothing could satisfy him but the complete pos- 
session of Constantinople. Still, the Emperor, aided by 
Giustiniani, did all he could to protract the siege. They 
led sorties against the enemy, but it was like endeav- 
oring to hold back the waves of the ocean. They organ- 
ized attacks by water, but it was evident that nothing 
could save Constantinople. A dark cloud of gloom was 
descending over the inhabitants, though some, especially 
the enemies of the Emperor, seemed to take their fate 
lightly. Had they not said that they preferred the tur- 
ban of the Turk to the tiara of the Pope ? 

Hot a day passed without Morosini and Dimitrios see- 
ing each other. Helena had gradually recovered her 
strength, feeling happy in the thought that her brother 
was near. Dimitrios and his bosom friend were pacing 
up and down on a terrace near the southern walls of the 
city, engaged in deep conversation. 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


155 


‘^Yes, Dimitrios/’ said the Venetian, “it is perfectly 
true that human passion was the sole cause of the schism. 
Had there not been an unreasonable ambition in the 
breasts of the Greeks, you might still be subject to the 
Pope, as your fathers were.” 

“I have told you, Vincent, that I will readily admit 
that a certain primacy of honor had been developed in 
the Church in favor of the Bishop of Rome, a primacy 
which was acknowledged both by the East and the West, 
even by the (Ecumenical Patriarch, but I do not see 
that this primacy was one of jurisdiction.” 

“My dear Dimitrios, the very fact of the intervention 
of the Sovereign Pontiff being invoked in grave matters, 
the very fact of there being an appeal to him against the 
decision of tne Bishops, the fact that his legates pre- 
' sided at the councils, the words of the Fathers of Chal- 
cedon and many other facts prove that Rome exercised 
jurisdiction over all the Churches.” 

“Even this,” answered the Greek, “may have owed its 
origin to spontaneous growth. It is not evident to my 
mind that it was founded upon divine right.” 

“Do you not know, Dimitrios, that Christ said that 
He was to build His Church upon a rock ? Now the 
Fathers of the first five centuries all agree in applying 
this figure to St. Peter, to whom the words are addressed, 
so that they consider St. Peter as the foundation of the 
Church. Was it not natural that Christ, having founded 
His Church, should give to it a head ? But what is a 
head without authority ? All tends to prove that St. 
Peter was the first of the Apostles, therefore he must 
have been the head of the Church, for he was the first 
among the first. Even a heathen writer of the fourth 
century, with whom you are, no doubt, acquainted, I 


156 


DIMITEIOS Ai^D IREKE. 


mean Ammianus Marcellinus, tells ns tliat the supreme 
authority over the Christians was vested in the Bishop 
of Eome. St. Cyprian, in one of his epistles to St. Cor- 
nelius, says that the Church was founded upon Peter, 
and he writes that to be in communion with the Bishop 
of Eome, is equivalent to being in communion with the 
Catholic Church.” 

‘‘If that is the case,” answered Dimitrios, “we, poor 
Greeks, are badly off, for we are separated from the un- 
ity of the Church. But, leaving this question for the 
present, — for I intend to study it myself, — allow me to 
ask you another, one connected with discipline. Why is 
it that the Latin Priests are forbidden to marry ?” 

Morosini smiled. 

“This is a peculiar question,” he said, “and it seems to 
have little to do with the Primacy, but I will answer it.« 
You admit that a life of absolute continence is better 
than marriage, for your own monks and nuns are bound 
to it for life, and your Bishops are celibates. Acting 
on this principle, the Church has, from the earliest 
times, both in the East and the West, forbidden persons 
in Holy Orders to marry, as is evident from the councils 
of Heocaesarea and Hicaea. About the year 305, it was 
decreed in the West, in the council of Elvira, that the 
ministers of the Church should live in continence, even 
if they had been married before ordination. This law 
held good only for the West, and did not prevail in the 
East, as the council of Nicaea refused to impose it upon 
the whole Church. It appears, though, that about the 
middle of the fifth century, the law of celibacy, which 
existed among the Latins, prevailed, also, in certain parts 
of Greece, namely -Thessaly, Macedonia and Achaia. It 
rarely happened that a Bishop was married, but the 


DIMITRIOS AXD IRENE. 


157 


synod in Trullo required him, if married, to separate 
from his wife, and forbade all clerics to marry after the 
sub-diaconate. Leo the Wise, in the ninth century, 
modified this law and permitted sub-deacons, deacons 
and priests who had married after taking orders to re- 
main in the ranks of the clergy, without, however, exer- 
cising sacred functions. Eemember, this was in your 
own Constantinople. These practises finally developed 
into the present practise of the Greek Church, namely, 
that Bishops cannot be married, that no cleric may 
marry after being ordained deacon, and that, although 
those who were married before ordination may continue 
to live in the marriage state, they cannot marry a second 
time, after the death of their wives. Thus you see that 
celibacy truly exists among the Greeks, but only in a 
modified form. Are you satisfied 

‘‘Perfectly,” answered Dimitrios, “you have rendered 
the matter clear. I thank you. Eeally, Morosini, you 
ought to have been a priest, you are so versed in theol- 
ogy and ecclesiastical history, although I would not 
have said so when I saw you cutting off the heads of the 
Turks not long ago.” 

“We are not all called to that sublime vocation, my 
friend — there are various degrees in the Church, and it 
is necessary that all positions should be filled.” 

As in walking up and down, they turned toward the 
sea, Morosini suddenly stopped, and, taking Dimitrios 
by the arm, said : 

“Do you see those vessels in the distance ? They are 
bearing this way, and are evidently coming from the 
Hellespont, with all sail set. Behold ! they are firing 
cannon ; see the smoke as it suddenly bursts forth ; 
they are pursuing an enemy” 


158 


DIMITllIOS AJs’D IRENE. 


‘‘They must be friends/’ exclaimed Dimitries, “if 
they are firing upon the Turks, for there are no other 
ships to fife upon, while these waters are filled with 
Turkish ships.” 

It could he distinctly seen that there was a distant 
naval engagement, although the sound of cannon could 
not he heard, it being drowned hy the greater noise 
caused hy the firing which was kept up in the vicinity of 
the city. The ships, however, drew nearer, for their sails 
were filled with a favorable breeze. They were firing 
broadsides as they advanced, while it was evident that 
there was some defect in their enemies, who seemed to 
be firing at random. 

“I can see distinctly,” said Morosini, “they are five^ 
and they are following one another in a line. Look ! 
do you notice that large vessel to the right ? it is sink- 
ing ; the balls of the newcomers have taken effect.” 

The ship indicated was evidently going down; it 
could be seen to settle, when, suddenly, plunging head 
foremost, it disappeared beneath the waves. 

“There is one of the infidel ships gone !” said Moro- 
sini. 

The strangers plowed the waves, dividing the waters 
as they sped onward. The Greek ships in the Golden 
Horn had noticed their arrival, for they redoubled their 
energy in firing upon every Turkish vessel within range 
of their guns. 

“Another one is sinking,” exclaimed Dimitrios, “do 
you see that huge craft yonder? Its days are num- 
bered.” 

The old ship sank* from sight, and still another, 
and another was disabled, two were set on fire, 
but the newcomers seemed to suffer nothing. They 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


159 


were now in the midst of the Turkish fleet, but 
still they flew onward, wafted by the breeze, and 
firing as they went, Not only balls of stone were 
hurled against the wooden hulks of the infidels, but 
the dreaded Greek fire flew right and left among the 
fleet of the enemy, carrying death and terror into their 
hearts, and causing them, as it were, under the influ- 
ence of a panic fear, to fly for their lives. The five 
ships had forced their way through the Turkish fleet, 
and they were now under the walls of Constantinople. 
A loud cry of joy and welcome arose from the ranks of 
the city’s defenders, a demonstration in which both 
Dimitrios and Morosini joined with heartfelt gladness. 
It was answered from the decks of the ships. 

‘T told you they were friends,” said Dimitrios, 
‘‘whence can they have come? One is flying the 
standard of Constantinople, but what are the other 
colors ?” 

Dimitrios pointed to the ships, and Morosini replied : 

“It is the flag of Genoa, I think.” 

“Whatever they are,” said Dimitrios, “they have per- 
formed a brave deed. In spite of Turkish ships and 
Turkish cannon, they have reached the Golden Horn in 
safety.” 

Indeed, the five vessels were just entering the harbor, 
the chain having been lowered to allow them to pass, 
and, as they sailed triumphantly into the Golden Horn, 
they were greeted by prolonged cheers from the decks 
of the Greek vessels, as well as from the shore. A 
great and heroic deed had been performed. The news 
soon spread from one end of the city to the other ; it 
went from mouth to mouth, as usually, growing as it 


160 


DIMITRIOS AKD IRENE. 


grew older, assuming gigantic proportions, and raising 
the spirits of the Greeks. 

As Morosini and his friend descended into the streets 
of the city, they were greeted on all sides by questions 
such as these : ‘‘Have you heard the news ?” “Did you see 
the ships “Is it true that the Turkish fleet has been 
burned Or, information was vouchsafed to them in 
this form: “AVe are saved; Venice and Genoa have 
sent us a combined fleet of flfty galleys each ; they have 
sunk a number of Turkish vessels, and are now scour- 
ing the Bosphorous and the Propontis.” 

“Would to God it were true !” answered Dimitrios to 
one who brought him this wonderful piece of news, but, 
alas ! my friend, you have been misinformed.” 

“What ! have no ships come to our assistance ? I was 
informed by one who had seen them.” 

“That may be true, but he certainly did not see more 
than five, except it be ships of the enemy.” 

When the real state of affairs became known, and the 
oxcitement had somewhat subsided, it was learned that 
the five ships, with their heroic crews, had come from 
the ^gean Sea. The effect of this arrival was, for 
a brief period, to revive the drooping spirits of the 
Greeks. But this was like the last flickering of a 
oandle about to be extinguished. 

“I am rejoiced,” said Morosini to Dimitrios, “that the 
ships have come, but they will not avail to save us. 
The numbers of our enemies are overwhelming. AVe 
may hold out a few weeks longer, but the unfortunate 
■city is doomed ; nothing can save us now except a pow- 
erful intervention of the West, or a miraculous assist- 
ance from on high.” 



A 8 THEY TURNED TOWARD THE SEA, MOROSINI SUD- 
DENLY STOPPED. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


Easter liad come and gone. The ceremonies of Holy 
Week, performed according to the elaborate ritual of 
the Greek Church, had never been more impressive. It 
seemed as though Constantinople was anticipating its 
own crucifixion by a Gethsemane of fearful anticipation. 
A damper was thrown over the joys of Easter, which all 
felt would be the last celebrated under the dome of St 
Sophia. Only a few Greeks had participated in the cel- 
ebration within the walls of that glorious temple, for the 
populace and the inferior clergy, together with the 
monks, could not be reconciled to the thought that the 
Pope’s authority was again received in Constantinople, 
and its principal church. 

A singular circumstance had occurred on Easter 
morning, which had produced a strong impression upon 
the sensitive heart of Dimitrios. At the moment that 
he was leaving St. Sophia, after assisting at Mass, a 
man of wild aspect, with flaming eyes, was standing at 
the western entrance, exclaiming in a solemn voice : 
^Woe to Constantinople !” Continuing, he cited the 
words of the prophet : ^‘Declare ye among the nations, 
and publish it ; lift up a standard, proclaim and conceal 
it not ; say : Babylon is taken .... for a nation 
is come up against her' out of the North, which shall 
make her land desolate. My people hath been a lost 
flock ; their shepherds have caused them to go astray. 
Remove out of the midst of Babylon .... Her 


162 


DIMITRIOS AKD IKENE. 


foundations are fallen ; her walls are thrown down, for 
it is the vengeance of the Lord • . . . AVoe to 
them, for their day is come, the time of their visitation 
. . . . At the noise of the taking of Babylon, the 
earth is moved, and the cry is heard among the na- 
tions.’^ 

A crowd had gathered around the speaker, and they 
listened to him in the most profound silence ; his words 
seemed prophetic; he appeared inspired. Proceeding 
in the same strain, but no longer using the words of 
Scripture, he spoke thus, with his eyes raised heaven- 
ward : 

‘‘Thus spoke the Prophet concerning Babylon, and 
thus speak I concerning thee, 0, city of Constantine t 
thou Constantinople of to-day, and Constantinople of 
centuries hence ; for what is done to thee now, shall be 
repeated in ages to come, when the besiegers shall be 
besieged. As the Empire of Constantine has fallen to 
pieces, thus shall the Empire of Mahomet crumble. In 
the South the children of Greece shall arise, and the 
children of the Prophet shall be confounded and put 
to flight ; in the North, the provinces shall free them- 
selves from the yoke. Then shall a nation come upon 
thee, 0, Constantinople I from the North; a nation that 
shall devour thee. That shall be the day of revenge. 
Then shall once more sounds of rejoicing be heard 
within the walls of St. Sophia, and the Empire of Con- 
stantine be restored.” 

The strange being ceased speaking, and, without ad- 
dressing a word to any one, he wrapped his cloak around 
him and walked away ; no one knew whither he had 
gone. 

Several weeks had passed since then; the siege had 


DIMITEIOS AI^D lEEi^E. 


163 


been carried on with, increasing activity on the part 
cf the Turks, w^ho were now nearly under the walls, in 
spite of the Greek fire which was poured into their Banks 
by the besieged. They had their engines of war into 
position, using catapults, which cast huge blocks of 
stone among their enemies, wliile their cannon con tin " 
lied to batter the walls, which had given away in 
several places. Battering rams stood ready to be 
used in case the opportunity presented itself, and a 
number of scaling ladders were at hand. The loss of 
the Turks was considerable, but, as fast as they fell, 
others immediately took their place, either at the can- 
non, the formidable mortars which wrought dire havoc 
among the besieged, the catapults, or among the archers. 

Constantine had made a last appeal to Mahomet in 
behalf of his capital, offering to submit to him and pay 
any tribute he might desire. It was not cowardice 
w^hich prompted him to this step, but rather a wish to 
save tiie population from massacre and pillage, which, 
he knew, would be inevitable in case the city were car- 
ried by storm. But all was in vain ; the young mon- 
arch of the Turks, fiushed with victory, rejected the 
proposition with scorn. For Constantine there remained 
naught save — to die. 

The month of May was hastening to its close. Dimit- 
ries and Morosini had both spent a sleepless night upon 
the walls. The morning found them together on the 
grounds of the old Imperial Palace. The sun had not 
yet risen, but at that season of the year it was already 
broad daylight. The Eastern sky, adorned with the 
roseate hue of the morning, announced that the glorious 
orb -would soon burst forth in all its splendor. 

“My friend/’ said Morosini, sadly, “all may be con- 


164 


DIMITKIOS AKD IRENE. 


sidered lost ; the Turks have gained possession of the 
Golden Horn.’’ 

‘‘What a gigantic undertaking !” replied the young 
Greek, “Yes, who would have dreamt of it? In one 
single night they have launched at least a hundred ves- 
sels in the inner harbor.” 

“But I cannot see how they could possibly have done 
it.” 

“By dint of labor. You know that Mahomet caused 
u passage of nearly two leagues to be dug over land be- 
yond Pera. This he lined with planks smeared with 
grease. His vessels were placed upon rollers, and these, 
by means of engines and a multitude of men, were 
dragged from the Bosphorus into the Golden Horn.” 

“A stroke of genius, worthy of a better cause !” ex- 
claimed Dimitrios. 

“But this is not all,” said Morosini, “three great 
breaches are appearing in the walls ; the first between 
the Palace of the Hebdomon and the Gate of Polyan- 
drion ; the second near the Gate of Oharisius, and the 
third between the Gate Eoussion and the Selymbria 
Gate. Our brave men are posted at each of these weak 
spots ; they will fight like lions, I know, but numbers 
will overwhelm them.” 

‘•Ah ! Morosini, hard days are before us. Shall we 
ever meet again in peaceful conversation ? Who knows ? 
Our dead bodies shall, perhaps, soon lie side by side. I 
have thought seriously over the question of the Papacy. 
Helena and myself have conversed on the subject, and 
I find that, long before I had thought of it, she had 
given the matter earnest consideration. I found her 
determined to be reconciled with the Latin Church, and 
she entreated me to follow her example. I have prayed 


DIMITRIOS Ai^D IREJfE. 


165 


long and fervently ; light has succeeded to darkness, I 
believe. I would not dare to die in schism. I see now 
clearly that the Church of Christ is one, one in doctrine 
and one in government. I see that the Pope is the his- 
torical successor of St. Peter, and that it was to Peter 
that Christ gave authority to feed His lambs and His 
sheep. Christian antiquity shows me clearly that those 
who were not in communion with the successors of 
Peter, were looked upon as heretics and schismatics. If 
I enter into communion with Eome, I must believe as 
Eome believes, for Christ prayed for Peter, that his 
faith might not fail. He told him to confirm his breth- 
ren and the doctrine of the Church is one. Moreover, 
there must be a centre of truth and a centre of unity 
and this, I am convinced, is nowhere to be found but in 
Peter and his successors. I am now decided, all steps 
have been taken, the Emperor is delighted, and, on this 
very day, I will be reconciled to the Church of our 
Fathers by the Papal Legate himself. Helena will 
kneel at my side to abjure the schism.’\ 

“0, Dimitrios I” exclaimed Morosini, taking both the 
hands of his friend, ‘‘how can I congratulate you? 
This is, indeed, the happiest day of my life. Now can 
I die in peace, for I know that the prodigal has returned 
home.” 

Although Morosini was, by no means, a man of senti- 
ment, he could not restrain, nor did he attempt to con- 
ceal, the tears that were trickling down his cheeks. 
They were tears of joy over the return of an innocent 
wanderer to the mother he had despised because he had 
not known her. 

“I feel happy,” he went on, “because now I will know 
that you and Helena are safe.” 


166 


DIMITRIOS Ai^D IREJnTE. 


‘^Poor Helena said Dimitrios, “what will become of 
her ? ’ 

“As to Helena,” replied Morosini, “as long as my 
hand can wield a sword, she shall be protected ; if that 
fails” — the Italian pointed upward — “there liveth and 
reigneth One who rules the world ; trust in Him.” 

“Shall we leave Helena at home ?” 

“What better place of safety can you find ? My vig- 
ilant eyes shall be ever upon that house. You know 
my position. I am perfectly free. The handful of Ve- 
netians under my command are in my pay. I am sub- 
ject to none, having volunteered my services in behalf 
of the Empire. My lieutenant is as well able to con- 
duct my little company as I am myself. I will be every- 
where at once — guards will be stationed at your house, 
and a swift courier, who will apprise me at the first ap- 
proach of danger.” 

“But what will you be able to do in the midst of the 
confusion, when the city is taken by storm ?” 

“Leave that to me. Do you not confide in your 
friend ? 

“As much as in myself, Vincent.” 

The cannonading was terrific. From all sides a heavy 
fire was being poured into the unfortunate city. All the 
batteries on the land side were playing against the tot- 
tering walls, while a number of mortars were casting- 
heavy stones upon the besieged. The Turkish shijDS in 
the Golden Horn as well as those upon the waters of the 
Propontis, united their efforts with those of the army. 
It was now certain that Constantinople would soon be 
in the power of the Infidel. 

Mahomet, to urge on his troops, promised them the 
spoil. “The city and the buildings,” he had said, “are 


DIMITKIOS AKD IREN-E. 


167 


mine ; but I resign to you the captives and the spoil, 
the treasures of gold and beauty; be rich, and be 
happy.” Nothing more was needed to spur on men, 
thirsting for Christian blood and Christian riches, and 
-already rendered impatient by the protracted siege and 
the stubborn resistance of the Greeks. They worked 
with a will at the cannon. 

While the Turkish cannon roared, announcing the 
approaching end, the day wore on. The evening was 
approaching. Dimitrios and Helena had both been 
reconciled to the Church of Rome, their hearts, as well 
as the heart of Morosini, were filled with peace and 
happiness, in spite of the awful fate that seemed im- 
pending. As the shades of night began to fall upon the 
doomed city, the cannonading gradually ceased, until it 
was finally succeeded by an ominous silence, which, all 
felt, was the calm that preceded the storm. 

The Emperor had summoned Dimitrios and Morosini 
to his presence, in the Blachernae Palace. Alas ! it was 
the last time they would meet there. 

As the two friends entered into the presence of the 
Sovereign, they found him standing with his arms crossed 
upon his breast. His face wore an expression of deep 
agony, his furrowed brow, and the Hnec upon his counte- 
nance bespoke the strain of mental anguish that had 
been laid upon him. As his glance fell upon the two 
faithful subjects, his eye brightened and a sad smile 
formed itself upon his face. They knelt before him, he 
bade them rise. Embracing Dimitrios, he spoke: 

‘‘My dearest son, once more receive the sincere con- 
gratulations of Constantine, the last Emperor of Byzan- 
tium. Thou art now my brother indeed, a son of Holy 
Church, our common Mother.” 


168 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREiq^E. 


The tender-hearted youth, heedless of the Imperial 
dignity, leaned his head upon the Emperor’s shoulder, 
and wept. Morosini could not restrain his tears. The 
scene was touching. There stood the last scion of the 
Imperial House of Paleologos, the last successor of 
Constantine the Great, Constantine XI. His eyes were 
dimmed with tears. In his arms he clasped a noble de- 
scendant of a family that had once wielded the scepter 
over the Byzantine Empire. That scepter was broken, 
the crown was about to fall forever, the Imperial Eagle 
was dying. 

‘‘0, Dimitries ! how joyful and yet how sad !” spoke 
the Monarch, ‘‘joyful to think that we die in the Church 
of Christ, and yet sad to leave our children in the hands 
of the enemy. I feel the shadows of death fast gather- 
ing around me ; my son, we soon must part. I feel that 
Constantine soon must die, but his death shall bc' the 
death of the brave. Blessed are the dead that die in the 
Lord ! But, Oh, how frightful the fate of the living 2 My 
heart is pierced with anguish when I think oi: the 
doom of this fair city.” 

The Emperor’s voice faltered, it was choked witl^. Ms 
sobs. A silence succeeded, more painful than words. 
The hearts of the three men seemed to melt into one. 
Dimitrios and Morosini both knelt before their Sovereign, 
they kissed his hands. 

“My children,” said the Emperor, “farewell ! We shall 
meet upon the field of battlo, and then ” 

Pointing his hand upward, he added ; 

“And then, beyond the skies.” 

1 lo could speak no more. Casting a last, loving glanco 
upon those he had loved so well and who had proved 
themselves faithful to the end, Constantine withdrew. 

Dark night fell upon Byzantium’s walls^ silence 
reigned supreme. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


The dreary night was at an end. Before the break of 
day, the Emperor and his guard stood beside the gate 
of St. Romanus, where the principal breach was yawn- 
ing to allow the entrance of the foe. Two towers had 
been leveled^ by the Ottoman cannon, and the debris 
filled the ditch. Guistiniani was there with the men oi 
Genoa, and there too, stood Morosini with his brave 
Venetian volunteers. Dimi trios, clad from head to foot 
in armor, grasped his sword nervously, while his eyes 
remained fixed upon the Emperdr. 

Within the city, the inhabitants were filled with dis- 
may, many spending hours in the churches, to implore 
the help of God. Dimi trios had given strict orders to 
Helena not to leave the house, before which several 
Venetian guards were stationed in accordance with the 
promise of Morosini. 

When the first streaks of dawn announced the end of 
the night, the roar of Turkish cannon ushered in the 
day. On all sides of the unfortunate city, the awful 
peals of warlike thunder rent the air. Still the brave 
defenders stood at their post. Mid fear and anxiety the 
day wore on. Constantinople was still in possession of 
its rightful owners. At night, the fire of artillery 
ceased, but Constantine and his followers remained at 
their post, guarding the dangerous breach. Sleep had 
fied from the eyes of the inhabitants, no one knew what 
the morrow might bring forth. Dimitrios hastily par- 


170 


DIMITKIOS AifD lEEis^E. 


took of a slight refreshment, though his appetite had 
forsaken him, for he knew that the struggle of life and 
death was about to commence. 

The Turkish army was drawn up on the other side of 
the ditch, along the land wall. It resembled a blood- 
thirsty tiger, crouching, in order to spring upon its prey. 

Slowly the weary hours wore on, there was no change in 
the situation. The hour of midnight finally arrived. It 
began the last day of the Byzantine Empire, the memor- 
able 29th of May, of the year 1453. 

A soldier approached Dimitrios. — 

‘‘The Emperor wishes you to come to him,” said the 
man. The youth immediately obeyed the summons, and, 
proceeding to the spot where the Sovereign of Byzantium 
stood, he found Morosini standing beside him. 

“Dimitrios,” said the Monarch, “we have loved each 
other in life, we shall love each other in death. I now 
proceed to St. Sophia. I feel that it is for the last time. 
Morosini goes with me. Will you accompany us ?” 

“My heart overflows with gratitude towards you, my 
Sovereign, at the thought of the honor conferred upon 
your humble servant, to bear you company at this most 
solemn moment.” 

“I will partake of the Body of the Lord, will you too 
strengthen yourself with the Sacrament, which, as St. 
Chrysostom says, makes men strong as lions ?” 

“I will, most serene lord, for it may be for us the 
Viaticum. ” 

“Come then, my faithful friends.” 

The Emperor mounted his horse, and his companions 
following his example, they rode off towards the church 
in which the Christian mysteries were to be celebrated 
for the last time. Without, all was plunged in the thick- 


DIMITRIOS IREJ^E. 


171 


^;st darkness, broken only by the torches carried by the 
attendants of the Emperor, but the sacred edifice was in 
a blaze of light. Numerous lamps in which perfumed 
oil fed the fiame, were everywhere suspended, casting a 
golden reflection upon the marble and the splendid 
mosaics of the interior. Never did St. Sophia seem so 
solemn. A multitude had gathered within it, in spite 
of the early hour and the fact that the Sacred Mysteries 
were to be celebrated according to the Latin rite. The 
awful solemnity of the moment seemed to have sup- 
pressed the animosity of the Greeks against the Latin 
Church. Women were sobbing, while strong men, with 
solemn faces, stood looking upon the awe-inspiring scene. 

The Emperor had occupied his stall, and he kept Dim- 
itries and Morosini near him. At the altar stood a priest, 
clad in the vestments of the Latin Church. A Eoman 
Cardinal, the envoy of the Sovereign Pontiff, was also 
there, besides high dignitaries of the Greek Church; 
They had all spent a sleepless night in anticipation of 
the awful fate that was impending. 

The Sacred Mysteries were offered up. At the mo- 
ment of the Hoiy Communion, the Emperor approached 
the altar. The deepest recollection w'as pictured in his 
countenance. He fell upon his knees before the priest, 
he raised his eyes and fixed them upon the Sacred Host ; 
there was something in them which was not of the earth. 
A sweet feeling of peace came over the soul of Constan- 
tine which mirrored itself in his features. The voice of 
the celebrant re-echoed at that solemn hour, under 
the lofty dome and through the aisles of St. Sophia : 
^‘May the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve thy 
soul unto eternal life For the last tirae! Words such 


172 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


as these rang in the ears of Dimitrios. ‘^For the last 
time ! Tomorrow it will be the name of Mahomet.” 

The Byzantine Emperor had partaken of the Sacra- 
ment of the Eucharist in the Church of Justinian. He 
arose and returned to his seat, to the west of the Sacred 
edifice, facing the altar. Dimitrios and Morosini also 
received the Holy Communion. 

Mass was over, but the people still remained. After 
a prayer of thanksgiving, the Emperor arose, bent his 
knee before the altar, and, beckoning to Morosini and 
Dimitrios to follow him, departed. As they left the 
Church, a piercing cry was heard at the distance of a 
few yards before them, and a man in long robes and 
hands upraised to heaven, darted away, disappearing in 
the darkness. 

“AVoe ! woe !” he cried, ‘‘woe to Constantinople !” 

The Emperor, summoning one of his attendants, bade 
him run after the strange individual, fearing lest his 
cries might excite a panic among the population. Again 
the cry resounded : 

“Woe to Constantinople ; woe to Byzantium ; woe to 
Constantine !” 

All was silent once more, the man had vanished. 

“It is the same person,” said Dimitrios, “who, on Easter 
Sunday, attracted attention by his singular words on 
this very spot.” 

“Alas !” replied the Emperor, “his words are awful, 
but I fear that they truly indicate the tragic end of the 
Queen of Cities. My friends, I leave you now to snatch 
a few moments’ repose which I badly need. Tomorrow 
I will need it no longer. Farewell, once more, Vincent, 
may God’s blessing rest upon you for your fidelity to 
Constantine Paleologus ! farewell, Dimitrios, my cher- 


DIMITBIOS AJsD lliENE. 


173 


ished youth, may God’s holy angels guard you ! Fare- 
well, my friends, until we meet in the Bosom of God.” 

The Sovereign of Byzantium embraced for the last 
time the two faithful servants, whom he loved as though 
they were his equals, and, with sorrow in his soul, de- 
parted towards the half -ruined Palace, where so many 
Emperors of Byzantium had slept before him. Constan- 
tine soon fell into blissful unconsciousness, and the 
last of the Emperors slej)t his last sleep upon earth. 

Dimitries and Morosini, knowing that they would 
stand in need of all their strength, concluded to follow 
the Sovereign’s example and retired to the quarters of the 
guards within the enclosure of the Palace, where they 
snatched a few hours’ sleep. They were up before the 
sun, and while darkness still covered the earth. They 
enquired whether the Emperor had yet left the Palace^ 
and learned that thus far, he had not been seen. Here- 
upon they proceeded through the Royal Gate, wEere a 
crowd had already gathered, and where a richly capari- 
soned horse was held in readiness for the Emperor. 

The horses of the two friends were also saddled. They 
had not long to wait, for a tramp of feet within the w^alls 
announced that the attendants of the sovereign were ap- 
proaching. In a few moments the Emperor, careworn 
and sad, made his appearance. Dimitrios and Morosini 
knelt before him, kissing his hands. The crowd drew 
back in mournful silence. The Emperor mounted his 
horse. His ministers and the members of his house- 
hold crow'ded around him for a last farewell. Constan- 
tine, holding the reins in his left hand, and raising the 
right, made a motion that he was about to speak. The 
multitude awaited his words in breathless attention. 

^Ely children,” thus sounded his voice amid the si- 


174 


DIMITKIOS AifD IREI^E. 


lence of that awful morning, “my children, the end haa 
come. Death shall find your sovereign fighting in de- 
fence of a city he may not save, hut’’ — here the mon- 
arch raised hin vaice — “of a city — let it be handed down 
to posterity— of a city he has loyed until his latest 
breath.’^ 

Suppressed sobs, bursting from the breasts of the 
spectators, were wafted upon the morning air. The 
Emperor continued : 

“Yea, I have loved Byzantium, the fair city of Con- 
stantine, the city that bears a name I bear; I have 
loved Byzantium, loved it to the end ; for Byzantium I 
have lived; for Byzantium I die.” 

Loud wailing arose from the lips of the multitude; 
women shrieked, warriors, grown grey upon the battle- 
field, brushed the tears from their eyes. 

“Weep not for me, my children, weep rather for your- 
selves. Weep for Constantinople. Whatever ills oetide 
you. Oh, let your Emperor, with his dying lips, implore 
you, be true to your country • be true to your God ! All 
men have their faults, Constantine has had his. If I 
have ever ilnjured any man, it wittingly or unwittingly, 
I have been the cause that the innocent one has suf- 
fered, in this solemn moment of my life, before bur 
common Creator, and in presence of you, my brethren, 
I beg you all — forgiveness.” 

Loud sobs and lamentations interrupted this speech. 

“Earewell ! my children/' cried Constantine, and the 
Emperor rode on to meet his fate. Dimitrios and his 
Venetian friend sprang into the saddle and follow^ed 
their master. 

High arose, borne aloft by the breeze of the morning, 
as though a distant echo, the cry : “Woe to Constantino- 


DIMITRIOS AJ^sI> IREKE. 


175 


pie! Woe to Constantine!” The Emperor heeded it 
not ; his friends were silent. They reached the gate of 
St. Eomanns. The bulk of the little Greek army was 
there. Besides the Emperor stood Giustiniani, sword in 
hand. To his left Morosini and his Venetians took up 
their stand, while Dimitrios occupied his place among 
the Emperor’s guards. 

The morn of the 29th of May was dawning. Faint 
rays from the East shot over the heads of the valiant 
defenders of Constantinople, reflecting upon the Turk- 
ish army before the ditch. Suddenly a shout arose 
from the thousands of Turkish mouths, and a horde, 
like an avalanche, heedless of danger and death, pre- 
cipitated itself upon the walls. A general attack had 
begun all along the walls at the weak spots, where 
breaches had been made. The main attack was at the 
northwestern portion of the wall, where the great breach 
yawned, beside the gate of St. Romanus. The Greeks 
filled the outer ramparts. The Turks rushed on, though 
thousands fell, pierced by the arrows of the city’s de- 
fenders, or hewn down by their swords. The Greeks 
fought like lions, the Turks like demons. The ponderous 
weapons of the former fell thick and fast upon the felt 
caps and unarmored bodies of the latter. Countless in- 
fidels were hurled back into the ditch as they attempted to 
scale the walls. Shouts of despair, imprecations of the 
besiegers, cries of the wounded and groans of the dying 
mingled with the clash of arms. The intrepid Chris- 
tians struck right and left; they drove back their as- 
sailants; it availed naught. Twelve thousand Janiza- 
ries stood before them. With flashing sabres in their 
hands they formed successive columns of attack. Hardly 
was one repelled, when another took its place. The 


176 


DIMITEIOS AKD IREXE. 


number of the enemies seemed infinite. Their dead 
bodies were heaped up in piles ; they were fast filling 
the ditch; still new hordes advanced. The Greeks 
were fast succumbing to fatigue. Dimitrios, with a 
shield on his left arm, and a long sword in the right 
hand, slew right and left, and many a Turk paid dearly 
for encountering the young Greek in mortal combat. 
The ditch was now filled with the bodies of the slain. 
They formed a solid ground under the feet of the J ani- 
zaries, who rushed on directly to the attack. The 
Greeks fell back, impelled by the onrushing forces of 
the enemy. A huge son of. the desert, a Turk, a true 
Goliath in size, with flaming eyes, raised his scimitar 
above the head of Constantine. Dimitrios noticed the 
danger of his sovereign. The blow had fallen, but 
upon the Emperor’s shield. In another moment the 
infidel lay biting the dust, pierced by the sword of Di- 
mitrios. The Emperor’s life was spared, but another 
illustrious victim had fallen, Giustianiani lay wounded 
in the face with an arrow. Speedily the bleeding chief- 
tain was carried away by his brave men and taken on 
board his galley. The ranks of the Christians were 
sadly thinned, the Emperor and a few companions stood 
nearly alone, still they yielded not. 

A loud cry is heard ; there is a fearful rush ; onward fly 
a troop of Janizaries, headed by Hassan of Ulabad. Di- 
mitrios casts a rapid glance around him. Only a few 
Greeks are visible. Where is Morosini ? The Emperor 
stands there still. But it is all in vain ; naught can save 
him now. His sword still falls upon the heads of the 
enemy, but he is wounded, covered with blood and 
exhausted. The Turks rush on ; the breach is filled 
with their numbers. Constantinople is conquered 


DIMITEIOS AIsD IREl^E. 


177 


and Constantine Paleologos falls, unknown to his 
enemies, who rush over his body into the city. All 
groAVS dark before the eyes of Dimitrios; he sees no 
more ; he sinks ; he falls ; Dimitrios Phocas lies prostrate 
upon the ground. A piercing cry re-echoes over Byzan- 
tium’s walls : ‘‘Woe, woe to Constantine ! Woe to Con- 
stantinople !” The prophecy has been fulfilled ; Byzan- 
tium has fallen. 


CHAPTEK XX. 


‘‘Oh, my brother, my brother ! ” This was the stifled 
cry which burst from the lips of the sister of Dimitrios, 
as, now and anon, she arose from her attitude of prayer, 
to give vent to her feelings. 

“ Zoe,” she said, turning to her old nurse, “ tell me, 
how think you it will end.; shall I ever behold him 
again ? ” 

“ Courage, dear lady,” replied the faithful servant 
“ God is good.” 

The words were spoken in such a hopeless tone, 
that they brought little consolation with them. 

“The firing has nearly ceased,” said Helena, “but 
that ominous sound, like the distant roar of the ocean, 
bodes no good. Perhaps at this very moment — ” 

She covered her face with her hands, as if afraid to 
think what her lips were about to utter. 

Hours of intense anxiety had thus worn away, Helena, 
now lying prostrate in prayer, then seeking relief in the 
exchange of words with Zoe. From time to time, the 
old woman would go to the outer door, to inquire from 
some solitary pedestrian as to the progress of the 
struggle, but what she heard was far from reassuring. 
Then she would return to her young mistress and en- 
deavor to cheer her with hopes which she knew were 
groundless. 

Suddenly, loud cries w^ere heard in the distance, as of 
a multitude rushing onward. 


DIMITEIOS Ai^D IREJhE. 


179 


^^0, Heavens!” cried Helena, ‘^what does ,that 
mean ?” 

‘‘Be calm, lady,” replied Zoe, “I will go and see.” 

“0, Zoe, be careful, venture not into the streets I” 

The latter, without waiting to reply, hastened to the 
door. She was met by one of the Venitian guards, 
running breathlessly into the house. 

“Noble lady,” he exclaimed, “fly, fly quickly, if you 
value your life ; the Turks are upon us!” 

The uproar grew louder, and it appeared as though 
the sound of tumultuous voices proceeded from the 
street in front of the house. Cries and shrieks of 
females could be heard above the din. 

“Heaven, protect us !” exclaimed Helena. 

“Follow me,” shouted the Venetian, leading the way. 

“Dimitrios, where is Dimitrios ? I do not want to 
live without Dimitrios,” shrieked the girl, half crazed 
with terror. Zoe took her mistress by the hand and 
dragged her to the door, through which the Venetian 
had just passed. As they reached the threshold, a 
horrible sight met their eyes. The unfortunate guard, 
who had risked his own life to save theirs, lay lifeless 
upon the ground in a pool of blood ; his head had been 
cleaved by a blow from a Turkish scimiter. 

“Ah, here is a prize !” exclaimed a ferocious Turk, as 
his eyes fell upon the Greek maiden. Though Zoe 
understood not his words, she divined his intention, as 
he advanced towards her mistress. Clasping her arms 
around her, as though she would hide her from the 
infidel, she cried out : 

“Help, mercy, spare her !” 

The follower of Mahomet rudely thrust her off, but 


180 


DIMITRIOS AKD IRE^STE. 


still she clung to Helena, who was rendered speechless 
by fright. 

‘‘Begone, hag!” roared the Turk, “this girl is mine. 
I was the first to lay eyes on her.” 

The faithful servant held on to her mistress. 

“If you will not let go your hold, take that,” and the 
brute severed the head of the unfortunate woman with 
one blow of his sabre. Scenes similar to this were being 
enacted in all quarters of Constantinople. The sight of 
this atrocious deed caused the head of Helena to reel ; 
her eyes grew dim — she had fainted. The Musselman 
caught her as she fell. 

“What are you doing, Ali, ugly scarecrow?” 
exclaimed a young Turk, more than six feet high, 
“give up that woman, I claim her !” 

“She is mine, by right of possession.” 

“I say she is mine by the right of the strongest, or 
the right of conquest, if you like; give her up at once.” 

“I will not, you shall have to fight for her first.” 

“Look here, Ali, what is the use of friends fighting ? 
We shall compromise the matter. But, fool, the girl is 
dead!” 

“Ho, she is not, she has only fainted. We will soon 
revive her.” 

A sound of horses hoofs is heard: the Turks 
look around. A rider is rushing on at full speed. 
The ground groans beneath him; heedlessly he rides 
over the Turks he encounters, if they are unfortunate 
enough to fall in his way. Ho one dares to intercept 
liim, all eyes are turned with wonder toward him. Ali, 
still holding the unconscious girl in his arms, and the 
newcomer look bewildered toward the rider. As the 
latter approaches the two men, he gradually slackens 


DIMITRIOS AlfD IREi^E. 


181 


his speed, then, at the distance of a few yards from 
them, he makes a sign, as if about to speak. They gaze 
at him in astonishment. Arriving near Ali, as quickly 
as lightning flashes, he bends over, clasps Helena in his 
left arm, draws her across the saddle, and darts off like 
an arrow shot from the bow. The shock received by 
Ali was so great that the clumsy Turk fell sprawling 
upon the ground. 

‘‘Hold him,” he cried, “hold the thief, the dog of a 
Christian !” 

His companion roared with laughter as he beheld the 
discomfited Ali struggling to his feet. This enraged 
the brute still more, and he sprang at his neighbor like 
a tiger. 

“This is thy fault, villain !” he exclaimed, “and thou 
darest laugh at me !” 

“Be cool, Ali,” said the other, “donT be angry.” 

“Angry ?” roared Ali, “angry ? thou hound, I will 
choke thee !” • 

“Choke me ? Come, Ali, learn better manners than 
to talk to a comrade about choking. There ! I will not 
choke thee, I will do something else,” and the giant 
placed one arm around All’s waist, turning him as 
though he had been a reed, and setting him upon his 
head, while he held both feet in the air. 

“How, Ali,” he inquired, laughing, “are you prepared 
to choke ?” 

The unfortunate Ali struggled to free himself, but 
his friend, or rather enemy then, held him in his iron 
grasp. The comic spectacle attracted a number of 
other Turks who had witnessed the proceedings from 
afar, and, for a moment, forgetting their work of 
plunder, they ran up to enjoy the fun. 


182 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


‘‘What is the matter, Ismael ?” queried one of their 
number. 

“Nothing of importance. Two ravens happened to 
catch a beautiful little dove, but an eagle suddenly flew 
on and snatched the dove away from both. The dove 
is gone and the ravens are fighting it out between them- 
selves.” 

“Let me go, for Mahomet’s sake,” cried Ali, “the 
blood is rushing to my head.” 

“Well, I will let thee go, for we are losing our 
precious time, hut if thou ever again dost threaten to 
choke me, I will not let thee off so easily.” 

Then he loosed his hold on All’s feet, and the poor 
fellow again tumbled on the ground, to the great 
amusement of the spectators. Ali, red with shame and 
rage, arose and skulked off, casting upon Ismael a look 
which, to any one acquainted with the art of reading 
the human face, would have spoken the language of 
aeep revenge. In the midst of these scenes, the rider 
and the Greek girl had been forgotten. 

No sooner had Morosini, the deliverer of Helena, 
placed the poor girl upon his saddle, than he galloped 
off as fast *>s the fiery steed he rode could carry him* 
His position was one of extreme danger, for the streets 
were filled with Turks, and no Greek was safe. Still, 
it was a matter of life and death, and Morosini sped on 
his way. He knew that it would be impossible for him 
to gain the open country beyond the walls, for the 
Turks were scattered in all directions. There was no 
thought of entering a house, as the whole city was 
given up to pillage. His only hope lay in gaining a 
boat which, by his orders, lay concealed in a remote 
part of the harbor, and he hoped that the Turks would 


DIMITEIOS AXD IKE^hE. 


183 


1)6 SO busily engaged in plundering the inhabitants that 
they would pay little attention to the water front. But 
how could he possibly reach the boat ? At all events, 
it was necessary to hazard the experiment, so on he 
flew. He had arrived opposite the Hippodrome on his 
way to the south-eastern portion of the city, when an 
arrow came whizzing through the air. It pierced the 
breast of his steed ; the animal tottered and fell over 
the rider and his charge. In a moment half a dozen 
Turks surrounded them. 

‘‘Hold !’’ cried a man of Herculean frame, “I brought 
down the rider ; these Greeks are mine. Woe to him 
who touches a hair of their heads ! You know me?” 

The Turks drew back. 

“Help me to draw away the animal,” he added. 

A number set to work, and the horse was dragged off* 
The Turk approached Morosini and said to him in 
Greek: 

“Arise, young man, I did it for your own good. Fear 
nothing. You and the lady are safe now. Think not 
of resistance, for it would be your death. I assure you 
that not a hair of the lady’s head shall be hurt. But 
she has fainted.” 

Spreading his cloak upon the ground, he said : 

“Lay her down here.” Then, turning to one of the 
Turks, he spoke in a tone of authority: 

“Fetch some water, immediately.” 

Kneeling beside the unconscious girl, he gently 
opened her lips and let fall into her mouth a few drops 
of a liquid he carried in a small flask by his side. As 
Morosini at that moment happened to turn his head, he 
beheld a multitude of people moving in the direction of 
St. Sophia. 


184 


DIMITEIOS AND IBENE. 


‘‘It is the Sultan,” said the Turk, “but fear not, we 
shall not be molested ; you are safe with me.” 

In the centre of the Hippodrome stood a peculiar 
monument of venerable antiquity, a three-headed brazen 
serpent. It had been dedicated at Delphi, in the year 
470 B. C. by Pausanias and the Greeks, as a monument 
of their victory over the Persians at Plataea. Con- 
stantine had brought it to Byzantium, on removing the 
seat of the empire. As Mahomet reached the spot 
where the Delphic monument stood, he rose in his 
stirrups and, with one blow of his mace, smote away 
the jaws of the nearest serpent. Morisini could not 
refrain from a feeling of indignation at the sight of 
this wanton deed, and the blood rushed to his head and 
suffused his cheeks with a crimson tint. The Turk 
noticed his indignation, and said to him : 

“Young man, if you will follow my advice, you will 
abstain from showing anger at anything you may see.” 
Morosini was silent. Meanwhile, the Turkish soldier 
returned with the water he had been sent for. Helena 
seemed to be regaining consciousness. The Venetian, 
kneeling beside her, succeeded, with some difficulty, in 
causing her to swallow the liquid. Opening her eyes, 
she gazed around her as though bewildered, and, with a 
feeble voice, asked : 

“Where am I ?” 

“You are safe, Helena, and with friends,” said 
Vincent. She gazed at him with a stupified air, as 
though she did not recognize him and she were seeking 
to recall some event; finally, she exclaimed with a 
faint smile : 

“Vincent Morosini ! Thank Heaven !” 

Allowing her eyes to wander around, she added : 


DIMITRIOS Ai^D IREifE. 


185 


^‘Where is my brother 

‘‘He will soon return,” answered Vincent. 

“And Zoe?” inquired the girl. Then, as if the 
remembrance of the bloody scene she had witnessed 
shot across her mind, she put her hands before her face, 
as if to shut out the fearful vision. 

“We must remove her from here,” said the Turk, and 
turning to Helena he added, in a respectful tone : 

“Will you endeavor to walk, my lady? We will 
support you.” 

Seeing the Turk, she turned away her head with a 
frightened expression, exclaiming : 

“Go away from me ! Morosini, save me from these 
monsters !” 

“Fear not, Helena,” replied the Italian, “I am with 
you. This man will do you no harm. Let us try to 
raise you.” 

Reassured by these words, she offered no further 
resistance, and the two men gently raised the lady to 
her feet. Though weak, she was able to stand, and 
leaning on Morosini, she walked onward, preceded by 
the Turk. They directed their steps towards the nearest 
house, before which stood a follower of Mahomet. A 
few words were exchanged between both Turks, and 
the stranger who accompanied Morosini and Helena 
bade them enter, saying : 

“Here you will be safe.” 

The house seemed abandoned and, within it, all was 
confusion. It appeared evident that it had been given 
given over to pillage. Broken furniture lay scattered 
in all directions, but every object of value had disap- 
peared. Helena was conducted to one of the sleeping 
apartments and laid upon a couch. 


186 


DIMITRIOS AXD IREJ^E. 


<‘You need fear nothing, lady,” spoke the Turk, ^^you 
are here under my protection.” 

‘‘AYhere is Dimitrios ?” she asked with anxiety. 

“Helena, you need rest ; Dimitrios is safe, calm your 
Tears,” answered Morosini. 

“Oh, they are hiding the worst from me !” cried the 
poor girl, mid tears and sobs, “Dimitrios is dead, or he 
would be here.” 

Morosini endeavored, as much as possible, to hide the 
fears which tormented him, but, in spite of his efforts, 
his countenance betrayed him. 

“Vincent,” said Helena, “I see that you have nothing 
reassuring to tell me. You know not where my brother 
is. Tell me the truth.” 

“Helena, must you not confide in God ? Best assured 
that your brother will come to you.” 

The Turk gazed in silence upon the suffering girl; 
finally, he spoke ; 

“I will go in quest of your brother, and will bring 
him back to you.” 

“But you do not know my brother.” 

“I know him. I saw him when he was a prisoner 
^mong us. I am a friend, trust me.” 

Morosini turned an enquiring glance upon him, 
saying: 

“Are you the friend of whom Dimitrios spoke ; are 
you Selim ?” 

“I am not Selim, but I am Selim’s friend ; you 
shall hear more later. Meanwhile, remain with the 
lady. I will place a strong guard at the door; you 
will have naught to fear.” 

With these words the Turk departed. 


CHAPTER XXL 


What was happening in St. Sophia ? The abomina- 
tion of desolation was in the holy place. Eor centuries 
it had been a Christian temple in which the name of 
Christ had been daily pronounced with reverence, and 
the sacrifice of the Xew Law had been offered upon its 
altars by a Christian priesthood, though for a long time 
that priesthood had been separated from the great body 
of the Ohi’istian Church. Henceforward, the name of 
the prophet of Mecca was to take the place of that 
of the Redeemer, Around the sacred edifice stood 
a crowd of wailing captives who had sought refuge in 
the church. They were being divided among the Mus- 
sulman conquerors. The male captives were bound 
with cords, the females with their veils and girdles. 
Senators and slaves were linked together, prelates were 
bound to those of inferior dignity, plebeian youths to 
noble maids. In this general captivity, the ranks of 
society were confounded. Children had been torn from 
their parents, husbands from their wives, and the hard- 
hearted soldier heeded not the lamentations of his 
victims. The loud wailings of consecrated virgins who 
had been torn from the altar, arose above the universal 
cries of grief, while mothers detested their fecundity 
and deplored the fate of their infants. 

It was while this dismal spectacle was witnessed at 
the doors of St. Sophia, that the youthful conqueror 
rode up to the eastern entrance of the temple. Upon the 


188 


DIMITEIOS AXD IREI^E. 


face of Mahomet lay an expression of pity, and even of 
sympathy for his captives. He gazed upon the multi- 
tude with compassion, and, as he approached the 
entrance to the church, he was heard to exclaim : 

‘‘I will he the friend and father of these unfortu- 
nates.” 

The Sultan rode in at the eastern door. As he 
entered the edifice, followed by a multitude, a mollah, 
at his bidding, ascended the pulpit whence the voice of 
the Christian preacher had so frequently been heard, 
and, under the lofty dome of St. Sophia, resounded for 
the first time the cry : 

“God is great, and Mahomet is his prophet.” 

Beneath the pulpit stood two men, Joy was plainly 
pictured upon their countenances. The eyes of one 
were riveted upon the Sultan. He is no stranger to 
you, reader, you have seen him ere this; it is Nicolaus 
Lecapenos. When the Sultan left the church.that had 
now become a mosque, the two -men followed at a 
respectful distance. The work of spoliation began. 
The dome of St. Sophia was stripped of its ornaments, 
precious objects of gold and silver and the sacred vessels 
fell into the hands of the sacriligious invaders ; nothing 
was spared. 

No sooner had Nicolaus and his companion reached 
the Hippodrome than they were brought face to face 
with the Turk who, a short time before, had left 
Helena and Morosini, to go in quest of Diniitrios. 
Surprise pictured itself both on the face of the Greek 
and on that of the Turk. There was a mutual recog- 
nition. The countenance of the former bore evidence 
of unrestrained satisfaction, while that of the latter 


DIMITKIOS Ais-D IREKE. 189 

showed signs of the disgust which filled his heart and 
which he endeavored to conceal. 

Nicolaus recognizing Fortuny, in spite of his change 
of costume, exclaimed: “Fortuny, I had thought thee 
dead ! Hast thou joined the faithful 

“You understand,” replied the Catalan, “that the 
reason why I did not return to you arose from the fact 
that, during the siege, I could find no opportunity of 
entering the city.” 

“Well, at all events,” spoke Nicolaus, “I am delighted 
to see you. I have had numberless hair-breadth 
escapes. The Emperor did all he could to find me, 
under pretence of exchanging me for Dimitrios, but I 
was equal to the ruse. It is not such an easy task to 
ensnare this fox. But now — ha, ha ! — I am free, free 
as the birds of the air ; I replenish my lungs again with 
the pure air of heaveuj the beautiful sun shines 
upon me, Constantinople is ours ; there is only one thing 
wanting to my happiness, and that is, you know 
it, the possession of Irene. But the Sultan has promised 
her to me, and no one shall thwart me, I assure you.” 

“Speak not too soon, friend,” replied Fortuny. 

“What do you mean ?” asked Nicolaus with surprise, 

“Did you not send me to Thessalonica ?” 

“I did.” 

have been there.” 

^^And how is Irene ?” 

^‘That is more than I can tell.” 

“Speak, man, what do you mean ?” 

“I mean that the bird has flown.” 

“Impossible.” 

It is not only not impossible, but it is true. I found 
no trace of Irene, her father, nor the guard.” 


190 


DIMITRIOS AND IKBNE. 


^^Fortuny, you are deceiving me.’' 

‘‘As sure as the sun is shining upon us, so sure it 
that I am telling you the truth.” 

“I will go to Thessalonica myself ; I will find them,, 
as truly as my name is Nicolaus.” 

“You may do as you like. When will you start ?” 

“This very night. But, tell me, where is Dimitrios?’' 

“How can you ask that question ? Do you not know 
that nearly all the men who were fighting have fallen,, 
and that all those who were taken under arms have 
been put to death by the Sultan’s orders ? The Em- 
peror himself has disappeared, although Mohammed 
has ordered that search should be made for him. 
Dimitrios, no doubt, lies among the slain.” 

There was a smile upon the lips of Nicolaus, as he 
replied : 

“So much the better ; my rival is out of the way. 
Although I feel kindly towards him on account of his 
interest in me, I would rather see him dead thair 
alive, on account of Irene.” 

A look of aversion passed over the face of Fortuny. 

“Where is my reward ?” he asked. 

“It was only promised on condition that you brought 
me news, of Irene” 

“Is it thus you make bargains, Greek? We shall 
meet again, Lecapenos.” 

Fortuny turned upon his heels, and, ere Nicolaus had 
time to recall him, he was gone. On reaching the 
Mese, he saw a Turk standing with two saddled horses- 
beside him. Holding out a piece of gold, he saidt 

“Give me one of those animals.” 

The Mahometan’s eyes fell greedily upon the glitter- 
ing metal, and, without hesitation, he made the ex- 


DIMITRI03 AND IREXE. 


191 


change. In an instant Fortuny sprang into the saddle 
and galloped off toward the walls. Passing through the 
gate Phenar which was wide open, he proceeded in the 
direction of the camp. jf! * jk jk 

Meanwhile, Selim sat in his tent. Beside him lay 
upon an improvised couch Dimitrios, pale and wan. 
His head was tied with a bandage. 

“Dimitrios,” spoke the priest, “has not Providence 
been kind to you ? After saving the life of your soul, 
God has also saved the life of your body. Had I not 
been among the Turks who rushed first into the city, 
I would not have seen you fall. Your escape has been 
miraculous. When I saw the scimitar descend upon 
your head, I gave you up for lost. I was too late to 
avert the blow. Thank Heaven ! your wound is not 
serious. Your angel must have held his shield above 
you, for a blow like the one you received must have 
killed you. It broke your helmet. As soon as you fell, 
I rushed to your side. It was impossible to carry you 
to the right or to the left, for the multitude, storming 
into the city, pressed on all sides, hence I dragged you 
along for a considerable distance, until I found a free 
space.” 

“Father,” answered the youth, in a feeble voice, “you 
have saved my life ; I owe you more than I can ever 
repay, but would it not have been better if I had died ? 
Alas! life, bereft of all, is worse than death. Con- 
stantine has fallen, Morosini is no more, Helena is,, 
perhaps, dead, and Irene is lost to me forever. Why 
must I survive them ? I alone to weep over the ashes 
of the dead ! Why did I not fall with thee, Paleologos, 
with thee, my bosom friend, Morosini ? Then would I 


192 


DIMITBIOS AXD lEEKE. 


now be with Helena in a better world, and from beyond 
the skies my prayers would protect Irene.” 

Selim gazed, with tears in his eyes, upon the face of 
the youthful sufferer. 

‘^Speak not thus, Dimitrios, I beseech you,” he said, 
‘‘your imagination renders things worse than they are. 
Before we returned to the camp, I searched the spot 
where you told me Morosini had stood ; there was no 
trace of his body. I do not believe he is killed. I have 
sent Fortuny in quest of Helena, be sure that he will 
move Heaven and earth to find her. He was in advance 
of me when my eye first fell upon you whom he did not 
notice. I remember distinctly that, at the moment, 
when I flew to your side, I caught a glimpse of him 
rushing on in the front rank. He has surely reached 
the city in safety, and, perhaps, even now is on his way 
back with the good news that Helena is safe. One 
thing I must require of you ; that is strict secrecy in 
regard to your identity. Hot a soul must know you. 
You must pass for my slave; I will disguise you in 
such a manner that even Helena would not recognize 
jou. Be cheerful, and hope for the best.” 

“Welcome, Hassan!” cried a voice outside of the 
tent. 

Dimitrios started, while Selim jumped to his feet and 
ran to the entrance. Fortuny stood there in conver- 
sation with a man. Selim went out to him and drew 
him aside. 

“Well, Fortuny, what news ?” . 

^‘Ah, Padre, good news, good news! Let me go 
into your tent first and quench my thirst, I am dying 
for some juice of the grape.” 

“Ho, Fortuny, wait a moment, we have no time to 


DIMITBlOS Ai^D IREXE. 


193 


lose. Dimitrios is there, but lie is prostrated and any 
sudden intelligence of a startling nature might prove 
injurious to him.” 

‘‘Dimitrios there I 0, this is too good ! Now Helena 
will rejoice I” 

^‘Helena lives, Fortuny 

“She lives, my father, and she is safe.” 

Selim raised his eyes to Heaven and breathed a silent 
prayer of thanksgiving, then added the inquiry : 

“And Morosini ?” 

“He, too, is safe and with Helena.” 

Fortuny related the events of the day, taking es- 
pecial care not to omit his accidental meeting with 
Nicolaus. 

“So 1” said Selim, “he is going to Thessalonica ! We 
have, then, no time to lose. Saddle the three fleetest 
horses that you can And, bring them here within half 
an hour.” 

Selim entered the tent. Dimitrios raised himself on 
his elbow and gazed eagerly at the priest. 

“Did I not tell you to be of good cheer, Dimitrios ? 

“Speak, father, relieve my suspense, what news have 
you ?” 

“Excellent news, my boy.’‘ 

“Is Helena alive ?” 

“Yes, my son, alive and safe.” 

“Thank God ! Have you heard of Morosini ?” 

“Morosini is with Helena.” 

“Oh, the faithful friend ! Father, let us go to them.” 

“We shall go to them within an hour. Think you . 
that you are strong enough ?” 

“Oh, yes ! I feel a new strength within me, my life 
returns, my blood flows more freely.” 


194 


DIMITRIOS AND IREi^E. 


‘‘Await my return, dear boy.” 

Selim left the tent and in a short time returned with, 
a garment under his arm. It was a short tunic and 
girdle. Dimitrios, who had been already divested of 
his armor, put on the tunic. 

“Now,” said Selim, “you will have to make a sacrifice, 
you must allow me to cut off those locks.” 

“I am at your disposal, father.” 

“In an instant, the beautiful hair of Dimitrios lay 
upon the ground. Selim now opened several boxes 
containing ointments and cosmetics ; a few strokes of a 
camel’s hair brush over the face of the youth produced 
a marvellous transformation. He was no longer the 
handsome young soldier, but a withered man, apparently 
about fifty years of age. Selim’s words had been true, 
not even Helena could have known him. The prepara- 
tions had hardly been completed, than Fortuny entered. 
Walking towards Dimitrios and extending his hand, he 
said: 

“I suppose you remember me. Your escape from 
the Turkish camp would have been impossible had I 
not fallen on purpose. I wanted you to escape.” 

Dimitrios smiled in reply. The two men assisted 
the youth to his feet and helped him to mount his 
horse. Placing themselves on either side of him, they 
rode on toward the city. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


The day, the most terrible one in the history of the 
Byzantine Empire, the day of its death, the 29th of 
May, 1453, was about to be numbered with countless 
other days which lie buried in the grave of the past. 
The hours had dragged along slowly over the heart of 
poor Helena, as she anxiously awaited tidings of her 
brother. As time passed, and the Turk returned not, 
hope began to desert her, in spite of the cheering words 
of Morosini. Nourishment was brought to her by one 
of the guards Fortuny had stationed at the house, but 
she refused to touch food, while tears unceasingly 
coursed down her cheeks. The sun had set, and the 
shades of twilight gradually settled over the earth ; still 
there was no news of Dimi trios. 

‘^Oh, Morosini !” moaned the heart-broken girl, “my 
brother will never return !” 

“Do not lose courage so easily, Helena,” answered 
her friend. 

“Have I not waited an entire day ? If Dimitries is 
not dead, he is, at least, a prisoner.” 

“That does not follow. May he not be searching for 
us ?” 

A heavy step was heard, and suddenly the door was 
pushed open. A Turk entered, but it was not the one 
whom they expected. Both Helena and Vincent gazed, 
at him in mute surprise. 


196 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


‘‘Fear not,” tFe stranger said, “I am Selim, the 
friend of Dimitrios.” 

“Welcome, thrice welcome!” exclaimed Morosini. 

“Where is my brother ?” cried Helena. 

“Yonr brother lives, lady.” 

“He lives ! I thank Thee, Oh, God of Mercy ! My 
brother lives ? Where is he, why does he not come to 
me ?” 

“He will come, but I desired to prepare you. Your 
brother is disguised ; it is necessary for his safety ; you 
will not recognize him.” 

“Oh, bring him to me, let me see him I” 

“Your desire shall be accomplished, I go to fetch 
him.” 

Selim went out and, in ess than a minute, returned 
with Dimitries. Morosin gazed in astonishment. He 
would not have known his friend. 

“Is this Dimitries ?” he exclaimed. 

“Oh, my brother,” cried Helena, “ God has brought 
us back from the tomb !” 

“We can never sufficiently thank Him,” replied the 
youth, embracing his sister, then, turning to Morosini, 
he added : 

“Vincent, my friend, thy fidelity binds thee to me 
with ties that not even death can break.” 

Morosini grasped the hand of his friend in silence. 

“My friends,” said Selim, “we have no time to lose, 
prepare to leave Constantinople this very night. I have 
sent a faaithful servant to engage a vessel. Morosini, 
you must submit to a disguise, for otherwise your life will 
be in danger, and the Lady Helena must wear her veil the 
entire length of the journey. I know that Greek ladies 
are always veiled in public, but I simply remind her. 


DIMITRIOS Al^D IREA^E. 


197 


lest, in an unguarded moment, slie might inadvertently 
neglect this custom.’^ 

“We place ourselves into your hands, command us in 
all things,^’ said Dimitrios. 

Selim now proceeded to use his paint on Morosini, 
until the young man was no longer recognizable. 
Within an hour, Fortuny returned with the informa- 
tion that he had engaged a Turkish vessel to convey 
the party to Thessalonica, Very little time was spent in 
preparation, for they had nothing to take with them, 
save the clothes they wore. The house of Dimitrios 
had been pillaged, together with the rest of the city, 
and he had, consequently, lost his property. Morosini, 
it is true, was still wealthy, but his wealth lay in a 
distant country. Fortuny, however, and Selim, com- 
manded both influence and money, and, herewith, they 
had induced the Turkish captain to take them to Sal- 
onica. Selim himself had procured leave of absence 
from the army for an indefinite period. 

Dark night lay over Constantinople when the little 
party boarded the vessel that was to bear them away 
forever, and Dimitrios and Helena bade their native 
city a last farewell. It was a solemn moment. While 
Dimitrios leaned over the side of the vessel, as she 
slowly moved out of the harbor, and the buildings of 
Constantinople stood faintly outlined against the 
shadows of the night, the past, with all its bliss forever 
gone, and with all its horrors, rushed to his memory, like 
the sudden flash of recollection that shall burst upon 
every child of Adam, when time shall be no more. He 
seemed to live again, as he lived in the “long ago,’^ mid 
the untainted joys of childhood’s blessed period. That 
noble father and that gentle mother, whose loving 


198 


DIMITRIOS AI^D IRElifE. 


voices still sounded in liis ears out of the distance of an 
unforgotten past, were sleeping the sleep of the dead, 
beneath the soil now desecrated by the ruthless invader 
who respects not the symbol of Kedemption that casts 
its shadow over the tomb where Christians lie. Mid 
the sorrows conjured before the living by the voice of 
the dead, there arose, too, a vision of beauty and 
innocence, a vision, alas ! that had faded. 

“Irene, Irene,” thought Dimi trios, ^^how pleasantly 
the hours sped away in thy company ! Oh, how sadly 
I remember the last glance I cast upon thy fair form as 
it vanished before my eyes in the house of thy father, 
on that fatal evening that sent me forth an exile from 
a spot I loved so well !” 

From the innermost depths of his soul, there sounded 
a voice as he heard it on that very same evening : 

“There is nothing true but Heaven.” 

The young man raised his eyes. The stars were 
shedding their soft radiance upon the turbnlent scenes 
of death and desolation, over which the night had cast 
its mantle. They looked down upon the exiled son of 
Byzantium, and, as his eyes fell upon the dark waters 
of the Golden Horn, he saw the wavering reflection of 
those stars beneath the moving waves. 

“An image,” thought he, ‘^of time and eternity. There, 
all is steadfast and lasting, even more so than the 
firmament, which stands while kingdoms and 
empires crumble into dust; here, there is an ever 
moving, ever changing variety and vicissitude, like the 
unstable reflections brneath us.” 

Eecollections of the past few days crowded upon 
him. He still felt the warm grasp of the Emperor’s 
hand, that hand now stiffened in death, he still heard 


DIMITKIOS AXD IRENE. 


199 


the echo of that voice, a voice now hushed forever. It 
seemed to sound out of the silence of the grave : ‘‘My 
children, farewell !” 

“How, then, has the mighty fallen 1 Oh, Constan- 
tine, I shall never again behold thee I But thou art happy 
in thy sleep. Slumber, then, hero, and rest from thy 
labors until the day when the grave shall surrender its 
dead.’’ Emotions like these filled his soul which, "from 
scenes of woe and carnage, was turning to a last relic of 
happy days, his sister Helena, when a hand was laid 
upon his shoulders, and a voice sounded in his ears : 

“Dimitrios, why stand you here, thus pensive ? Do 
you not know that excessive sorrow unnerves the soul ? 
Rather prepare yourself for the labors that await 
you.” 

Dimitrios, turning, beheld Selim. 

“Thanks, my father, my mind had wandered ofi into 
the past.” 

The priest now led Dimitrios to Helena and Morosini, 
and some time was spent in conversation, in which Selim 
endeavored to raise the drooping spirits of the afflicted 
Greeks. 

The night passed, and a sleepless one it was for the 
travelers. When morning dawned, the first light of 
day revealed a vessel in the distance, sailing in the same 
direction.” 

“Do you see that craft 1”’ said Fortuny, “I know it, 
it sailed a few hours before we did. It carries Nicolaus 
Lecapenos.” 

“The wretch has been quicker than we were, but we 
have right on our side,” replied Selim. 

At this moment a Turk advanced towards ' the two 


men. 


200 


DIMITEIOS AIn’D IEEIhE. 


‘‘They have found the Emperor/’ he spoke, “I learned 
this just before leaving the city.” 

“Is the Emperor alive ?” inquired Fortuny, sur- 
prised. 

“No. I mean they have found his body. The first 
thing the Sultan did on entering -the city was to order a 
search for the sovereign of Byzantium. The body was 
finally discovered, but it was so disfigured that it could 
only be identified by the golden eagles on the mail 
shoes. The Sultan had the head struck off and he has 
ordered that it should be sent around to the chief 
cities.” 

Both Selim and Fortuny turned away their heads 
with tokens of evident disgust. 

On board the other ship, which was several miles in 
advance of the one which carried Dimitrios and his 
companions, a strange spectacle was seen. On the deck 
of the vessel lay huddled together a number of unfort- 
unate Greeks, who were being carried away from their 
homes to be dispersed in various sections of the Otto- 
man Empire and languish in slavery. They were, 
nearly all, young persons of both sexes. Bound by 
huge chains of iron, they sat with drooping heads and 
closed eyes, as if indifferent *to their fate ; the mark of 
despair was upon their countenances. At the stern of 
the ship two men were engaged in earnest conversation. 
They were both clad in Turkish costume, but the 
countenance of one showed that he was a Greek, Ob- 
serve them attentively and you will recognize the one as 
Nicolaus Lecapenos, the other as Ali, the Turk, from 
whom Helena was rescued by Morosini. 

“You may rely upon my words, Nicolaus,” spoke the 
latter, “I know where they are, I will conduct you to 


DIMITEIOS AXD IREl^E. 


201 


them. I want no reward, nothing, nothing but revenge. 
He made me a laughing stock, he despised me openly, 
he shall pay for it, I will have revenge. Ah ! little 
does he dream that I know all.” 

‘‘Are you perfectly sure, Ali, that Ismael has 
Irene in his power ?” 

“As sure as you are a living man, and that, too, by 
the orders of the Sultan. Mohammed has simply used 
you as a tool and he would care no more about cutting 
off your head, than he would about killing a fly. He 
has heard of the wonderful beauty of the Greek maiden 
and he has determined to enrich his harem with the 
golden sunshine of her presence. Ismael is merely the 
custodian of the girl. Her father and brother are 
left her for the present, that she may be more reconciled 
to her fate, but, in a short time, you may be sure of it, 
they will be removed*” 

“If what you say is true, as I have no doubt it is, how 
can I compete with the Sultan ? It would be madness 
to attempt it.” 

“If you follow my directions, you will succeed. At 
the time we appoint, you will have a boat hidden among* 
the rushes not far from the castle. I will gain ad- 
mittance as a workman, for the place is undergoing 
repairs. Ho one there knows me, for Ismael will be 
absent for several weeks. I am well acquainted with 
the place, in which there is a subterranean passage. I 
will endeavor to persuade the girl that I am her de- 
liverer; if she consents, so much the better; if she 
resists, she will be drugged. I will save her father 
and brother if I can ; if not, they must be left to their 
fate.” 

“The expedition is a hazardous one.” 


202 


DIMITRIOS IRENE. 


^‘It is ; but if managed prudently, it will succeed. 
T'orget not that I will have confederates; there are 
enough dare-devils in this world wlio are willing to 
risk their lives for a few gold pieces. And think of 
the reward: you will have Irene, and I, revenge. 
AVhen Mohammed hears that his prey has escaped, 
he will be furious and my enemy’s head will fall. 
Oh, it is glorious to think of it! Ismael, Ismael^ 
thou wilt never insult Ali again I” 

‘‘Give me your hand, Ali, the affair is settled.” 

Absorbed in conversation, Nicolaus had not noticed 
an old woman seated at some distance from them. She 
was near enough to overhear their words, but she 
seemed to heed them not. Her chin rested in her 
hands, while her elbows were supported by her knees. 
An attentive observer would have noticed that her 
eyes would occasionally steal a furtive glance at the 
speakers. The woman was evidently not a captive, 
and she had, probably, paid for her passage. 

The ship on which Nicolaus sailed arrived at 
Thessalonica several hours before the one that carried 
Dimitrios. No sooner had Lecapenos set foot on land 
than he directed his steps towards the house where 
Irene had been detained. He found that he had been 
correctly informed by Fortuny. The mansion was 
deserted. He left the spot, determined to execute 
his plans, not noticing that, at some distance behind 
him, walked the old crone, bent under the weight of 
years, whom we saw on board the ship. 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 


Two weeks had passed since the arrival of Dimitrios 
at Thessalonica. All inquiries concerning Irene had 
proved fruitless, no one knew whither she had gone. 
A heavy load weighed upon the soul of Dimitrios, and 
clouds of anguish gathered over him. The efforts of 
Selim to console him were in vain ; even Helena could 
hardly elicit a faint smile. Still, there was that in his 
countenance that denoted a fixed purpose and a firm 
determination. Wherever there seemed a possibility of 
obtaining information, Selim sought for it. He was 
standing outside of the door of the house in which he 
had placed his wards, when his attention was drawn to 
a Greek with tattered garments, who, at that moment, 
was passing. The man seemed shy, and he glanced 
from side to side, with a frightened expression upon liis 
face. 

‘T greet thee, stranger,” said Selim. 

The man stood still, but replied not. 

‘‘You have nothing to fear. I see that you are a 
Greek. I am a friend of the Greeks. Perhaps you may 
have fied from Constantinople ; if so, you are weary 
and, perhaps, need refreshment ; will you accept my 
hospitality today ?” 

The strauger, raising his eyes to Heaven, exclaimed 
with the words of the Liturgy ; 

“Kyrie eleison. Lord, have mercy on us !” 


204 


DIMITlilOS AXD IREisE. 


‘‘You have been witness of awful scenes, no doubt, 
my friend ; my house, humble as it is, is yours.” 

“Thanks, kind-hearted man,” replied the stranger 
timidly, “I will rest awhile beneath thy roof.” 

Selim led the way and the Greek followed him into 
the small house, which had been engaged for the party 
during their stay in Thessalonica. Dimitrios and 
Morosini sat facing each other in silence, Helena was 
in the apartment set aside for her use. 

“Dimitrios,” said Selim, “here is an unfortunate . 
countryman of yours who has fled from the Turks.” 

The stranger looked more at ease when he heard the 
words, but he gazed with surprise from Morosini to 
Dimitrios, neither of whom he would have taken for a 
Christian. Selim, noticing his embarassment, said : 

“We are clad as Turks, in order to escape observation. 
Be seated, and tell us of the unfortunate city.” 

The Greek began thus : 

“Words are unequal to the task. Tongue cannot 
express, mind cannot conceive the abomination of deso- 
lation that these eyes hav.e beheld. I have seen the 
bodies of the slain heaped up in the^ public places. 
More than two thousand have fallen by the sword. 
Sixty thousand of our unhappy countrymen have been 
carried off to the fleet and the camp, to be dispersed 
among Mohametan nations. The Sultan, on his arrival 
in the city, seemed touched by the sight that met his 
eyes. He declared that he would be the protector of 
our people. It was lying deceit and hypocrisy. But 
-how could we help being deceived ? The Sultan ran- 
somed several persons of rank, to others he gave their 
liberty. Many, deluded by his words, cast themselves 
upon his protection, alas ! to become his victims. I was 


DIMITRIOS AisD IREXE. 


205 


among the number of those who implored his clemency, 
and only my flight has saved me. The Sultan has left 
the city, but before doing so, he gave orders that the 
noblest of his captives should be beheaded in cold blood. 
They have fallen, the sons of Byzantium, fallen under 
the deadly swords of the infldel. Numbers of our poor 
people are scattered over the country, flying from death 
and disgrace. I have seen them driven like herds of 
cattle through the streets of the city, their trembling 
pace being quickened by menaces and blows ; but, alas ! 
the end is not yet. Shall I proceed ? My tongue almost 
refuses to perform its service in relating such horrors.'’ 

^^Yes, go on,” cried Dimitrios, ^flell us all.” 

‘‘Well, a young lady of our nation was made a slave 
by one of the pashas. She was of noble birth and of 
surpassing beauty and hardly seventeen years of age.’’ 

Dimitrios looked on with suppressed anxiety, his 
eyes riveted on the speaker, while his countenance 
assumed an ashen hue. The stranger proceeded : 

“As I said, her beauty was unsurpassed ; the Orient 
had never witnessed anything so charming. The pasha 
deemed her a present worthy of the Sultan. Mahomet 
accepted the gift and became entirely subdued by the 
charms of the poor girl. To this new passion he 
yielded himself entirely. It diverted his attention from 
his duties, and, for several days, he refused to see his 
ministers and the principal officers of the army. The 
men murmured, both officers and soldiers complained, 
but none dared remonstrate with him, so terrible is his 
wrath. Finally, one of his most faithful officers, 
Mustapha Pasha, informed him of the discourses which 
the Janissaries were holding against him. The Sultan 
remained silent, as if considering what course to pursue. 


206 


DIMITEIOS AKD IKEKE. 


Pinally he ordered Mustapha to summon, the next day^ 
all the pashas, the guards and the troops for a review. 
To Irene he paid the most devoted attention, more than 
ever.” 

‘^Great Heavens !” cried Dimi trios, ‘‘no, it cannot be 
Irene ! impossible.” 

“What ails thee, friend ?” asked the stranger ; “per- 
haps I have been imprudent.” 

“Go on,” exclaimed Dimitrios, “let me hear the rest, 
tell me all.” 

“I fear to continue.” 

“I beseech you, proceed ; it was only an exclamation 
drawn forth by the similarity of the name with one I 
know ; proceed, I pray.” 

“I said, that to the lady he began to pay greater at- 
tentions than ever, giving her numerous proofs of his 
love. On the morrow he bade her maids exert all their 
care and skill in dressing her. Taking her by the 
hand, he led her into the middle of the assembled 
troops, when, tearing off her veil, he haughtily asked 
the pachas if they had ever seen a more perfect beauty. 
All the officers praised her to the skies and congratu- 
lated the Sultan. Thereupon, Mohammed took hold of 
the hair of the beautiful Greek and, with the other 
hand he drew his sword, at one stroke, separating her 
head from her body, while he exclaimed : ^^This sword, 
whenever I please, can cut asunder the ties of lovef 

Selim sprang to his feet, as if touched by an electrio 
spark, Morosini clenched his fist, and Dimitrios, poor 
Dimitrios ! his hands fell lifeless by his side, his eyes 
closed, his head sank upon his breast, his body leaned 
to one side, he fell heavily upon the floor. 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREKE. 20 ? 

<*Great God! what have I done?’ exclaimed the 
stranger. 

In an instant Selim and Morosini were by the side of 
the prostrate man ; they laid him upon a couch and 
applied various remedies to recall him to consciousness. 

For a long time Dimitries lay deprived of his senses. 
Helena was nearly distracted with grief, while his 
friends did all in their power to revive him. While 
they were thus engaged, Fortuny entered. On learning 
the cause of the illness of Dimitrios, he exclaimed : 

“How unfortunate! Why was I not here?” 

He then proceeded to inform them that the alarm of 
Dimitrios was utterly without foundation, that he had 
learned the same sad history from another source and 
that, finally, the victim of the cruelty of Mahomet was 
not Irene Diogenes, but another noble lady of the same 
name. 

After long and patient labor on the part of his 
friends, Dimitrios gradually returned -to his senses, 
though it was some time before he recollected where he 
was and could connect the present with the past. 

“My dear boy,” said Selim, “how foolish you have 
been I” 

“Oh, Father I the blow was terrible.” 

“But, my son, there was no blow at all, except that 
inflicted upon our common sentiment of humanity.” 

“But is not Irene—?” 

“Yes, but not your Irene.” 

“Father, are you certain ?” 

“Perfectly sure, my son.” 

“How do you know ?” 

“Fortuny has it from a reliable source.” 

“You are not deceiving me. Father?” 


208 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREKE. 


‘‘You do not think me capable of such an act 

“Oh, no! forgive me, I am much calmer now/’ 

A loud knock was heard upon the outer door. We 
must not forget to state, ere we proceed, that the Greek 
who had related the tragic end of the unfortunate 
Grecian lady had, after partaking of refreshment, 
proceeded on his way. Hearing the rapping at the 
door, Fortuny proceeded to open a small aperture, 
which allowed him to see who was outside, while he 
remained unseen. There stood an old woman, stooping 
under the weight of years. Over her head she wore a 
coarse veil, which almost completely covered it, 
exposing to view only her eyes. She is the same creature 
whom we beheld on board the vessel where sat Nicolaus 
Lecapenos. 

“Who art thou ?” inquired, Fortuny. 

“A harmless old woman.” 

“What dost thou want ?” * 

“I would see Selim.” 

“What hast thou to communicate ?” 

“A matter of the gravest importance,” and she added 
in a lower tone, “regarding Irene Diogenes.” 

Fortuny, bidding her wait, returned to communicate 
in a whisper this intelligence to Selim. The eye of 
of the priest brightened. 

“Dimitries,” said he, turning to the young Greek, 
“an urgent affair requires my attention ; converse with 
Helena until my return. Morosini, and you, Fortuny, 
accompany me.” 

The heart of Dimitrios beat violently, but, without 
showing his emotion, he nodded acquiescence. Fortuny 
now proceeded to unfasten the door and admit the 
strange visitor into an inner room, where Selim and 


DIMITRIOS AXD IRENE. 


209 


Morosilii awaited lier. She bowed profoundly, as she 
entered, and accepted a seat offered her by the Italian. 

<‘My good woman,” spoke Selim, ‘‘what have you to 
communicate to me ?” 

She looked around anxiously. 

“Fear nothing,” he added, “you may trust my friends 
as-you trust me, and no one can overhear us.” 

“I know where Irene is,” she began, in a voice that 
sounded strangely melodious for a woman of her age. 

“Speak,” replied Selim, “speak, good woman, give us 
all information, no reward will be too great for you.” 

“I wish for no reward, save the testimony of my 
conscience.” 

“What, then, do you know ?” 

“Diogenes and his family remained for some time in 
this city, and they were removed no one knew whither ; 
but I have discovered all. The removal took place by 
the Sultan’s orders. He had learned of the extraordi- 
nary beauty of Irene, and he determined to possess her 
himself. In consequence of this he decided that, to- 
gether with her father and brother, she should be de- 
tained at the castle of Sestos on the Hellespont.” 

“Sestos !” exclaimed Morosini, “the spot where 
Solyman crossed the Hellespont some years ago ?” 

“The same,” answered the old woman. 

“Go on,” said Selim. 

“I have now told you where Irene is. You under- 
stand w'hat her fate will be, if she is left there. She 
must be rescued.” 

“If it costs us every drop of blood,” exclaimed 
Morosini. 

“Be not impetuous, young man,” replied the stranger, 


210 


DIMITHIOS AJS’D liiElsE, 


‘‘let prudence hold the helm. "Will you listen to my 
suggestion ?” 

“Proceed/^ replied Selim. 

“An attempt will be made to rescue her by those into 
whose hands she should not fall.’^ 

Here she related what she knew of the plans of Nic- 
olaus and Ali, and added : 

“Thus far, they have not been able to execute their 
design, because Ismael had unexpectedly arrived at the 
castle. However, he has again left it, and it is 
rumored that he will soon return with the Sultan 
himself. Thus, you see, there is no time to be lost. 
This is what I propose : There is a small vessel lying"^ 
herp at anchor. I know the captain. He is a Moor 
from the south of Spain and a friend of the Christians^ 
but he hates the Turks. I have spoken with him and 
he has agreed to take your party on board for a com- 
pensation. He has with him an amount of armor and 
weapons, and he will be of service to you, for he is a 
daring man. Let your party board his vessel to-night. 
I will accompany you to guide your movements. Nico- 
laus and his companions have already started by the over- 
land route. The time set aside for the execution of their 
plans is the night of the 20th of this month, June, at 
midnight, only three days from now. We will arrange 
matters thus, that we arrive on the spot at dusk, and 
land after dark. We will then hide ourselves opposite 
the subterranean passage, through which Irene will be 
brought — the very passage through which Prince 
Solyman entered the castle. Nicolaus is far from sus- 
pecting that his secret is known. As soon as I whistle, 
you will know that Ali is leaving the castle with Irene, 
You will then divide your parly, the half will render 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


211 


Kicolaus and his companions harmless, while the other 
half will overpower Ali and rescue Irene. The rest we 
must leave to Providence. If we gain the vessel in 
safety, we will immediately set all sail for the Island 
of Rhodes.” 

“My good woman,” said Selim, “your story is, indeed, 
marvellous, but what proofs can you give us that the 
facts are as you state ?” 

“Proofs ? None. I have only my word to offer, the 
word of a stranger; but remember that a drowning 
man catches at a straw ; you would find Irene at any 
cost, you know that she is not in Thessalonica, I assure 
you that I speak the truth ; if you pay no heed to my 
advice, you may lose your only chance of finding her, 
and think of the terrible consequences if she is not 
found.” 

“Well, good woman,” answered Selim, “it is a matter 
of life and death, we will catch at the straw and risk 
it. To-night we will be on board the vessel, to which 
you will conduct us,” 

“Well said,” replied the old woman, “you shall find 
me faithful. At midnight, when Thessalonica is 
plunged in sleep, I will meet you here.” 

She arose and departed. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


The hot sun of a glowing summer day in June bathed 
the landscape in a flood of light. The waters of the 
Hellespont lay calm and lifeless at the foot of the castle 
of Sestos, reflecting upon their heated bosom the bril- 
liant rays of the noon-day^ and stretching on one side 
towards the Propontis, on the other, toward the ^gean 
Sea. Nearly directly south from Sestos, on the opposite 
shores of the straits, lay the town of Abydos. All 
nature seemed sweltering in the heat, plants were 
drooping, while animals instinctively sought the shade. 
In a room of the castle, overlooking the Hellespont, sat 
Irene, pale and worn. Her eyes were sunken, her 
cheeks, bloodless, but there still shone around her 
the reflection of her extraordinary beauty. Opposite her 
stood John Diogenes. His grey locks hung carelessly 
on his shoulders, and his wasted frame showed the 
agony through which he had passed. Basil reclined on 
a couch near by. 

‘^My child,” spoke Diogenes, ^flf we are left as we are 
now, I feel contented, but when we awaken in the 
morning, we know not what the day will bring forth.” 

“Father,” replied the girl, “we are in the hands of 
One more powerful than the Sultan ; without His per- 
mission not a hair of our head will suffer.” 

There was a rap at the door, and the maid of Irene 
entered, bowing profoundly before her mistress. Point- 
ing towards the door, she pronounced the words : 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


213 


“Ismael Pasha. 

Irene turned and beheld a tall Turk of rather hand- 
some countenance, the same whom we saw at Constan- 
tinople together with Ali. Her face grew pale, her 
frame trembled. John Diogenes clenched his fist. Ad- 
vancing toward the lady, Ismael prostrated himself 
before her, as though she were his sovereign. 

“Hail, Sultana !” he exclaimed in Greek, “my master 
sends thee greeting.” 

Irene answered not. Ismael arose, and, standing 
respectfully before her, again spoke : 

“Sultana, my master greets thee.” 

“Why thus address me ? I am not a Sultana,” an- 
swered Irene. 

“You are Sultana, noble lady. My master has chosen 
you for his bride. He who wields the sceptre over the 
East and the West, will share his power with you.” 

“Beseech your master, in my name, to choose another, 
I am but a lowly Grecian maiden, unfit to reign over 
an empire.” 

“Mohammed will have no other, the light of your 
eyes shines within his soul.” 

“Spare your pains,” said Diogenes, “my daughter can- 
not accept the offer of the Sultan.” 

Ismael cast a threatening look upon him. Diogenes 
was silent for the sake of prudence. 

“What answer shall I bring to our sovereign lord ?” 
the Turk asked of Irene. 

“Tell him that I am a Christian.” 

“He knows this, but he will allow you the free 
exercise of your religion. Moreover, think of the glory 
in store for you : you shall be seated on the throne of 
Constantinople, all that your heart can desire will be 


214 


DIMITEIOS AKD IREi^E. 


yours. My master is young and powerful, he will 
render you happy.” 

“Your master already has a Sultana.” 

“He will make you the first in the realm.” 

“It would be unjust.” 

“My master’s will is justice.” 

“But my religion forbids me to marry a man who is 
already wedded.” 

“My master has as many spouses as he wishes.” 

' “This gives me no right to become his spouse.” 

“Think well, lady, before you reject the flattering 
offer of the Sultan. You belong to Mohammed.” 

“I belong to God.” 

“Your God will not deliver you from his hands.” 

“I am betrothed.” 

“Ho one shall come between you and the Sultan. 
Remember that you are in his power, you shall become • 
his bride, or a dweller in his harem. I advise you to 
choose the former. Once more, what answer shall I 
bring to my master ?” 

“Tell him that I thank him for the honor that he 
offers me, but that my conscience forbids me to*accept.’^ 

“Foolish girl!” cried Ismael, in wrath, “thousands 
would kiss the feet of the Sultan in gratitude for an 
honor you reject, but it matters not, the Sultan himself 
will visit you.” 

Ismael retired. 

“My poor child,” cried Diogenes, “we are in a sad 
plight, what shall we do ? I see no hope.” 

‘“Confide, father, remember Joseph in the prison of 
Egypt, Daniel in the lion’s den, the three children 
in the fiery furnace. The same God who protected them, 
can protect us.” 


DIMITKIOS AJfD IKENE. 


215 


‘‘But He seems to have abandoned ns.” 

‘‘He never forsakes those who confide in Him; there 
may be rescue at the eleventh hour.” 

“The hope seems vain. Constantinople has fallen, 
the Emperor is dead, all the young men have been 
killed, whence can rescue come? We have no right to 
expect a miracle.’^ 

“And yet I hope against hope.” 

“My child, this is foolish. Be not angry with your 
father, but allow him to make his thoughts known to 
you.” 

“Speak, father, speak.” 

“You know, dearest, what a fate will be ours, if you 
continue to resist the Sultan. His wrath is terrible. 
There is a way of reconciling the acceptance of his 
offer with your conscience.” 

The girl looked at her father in amazement. 

“Father,” she said, “I understand you not.” 

“Of course, the Sultan can be the lawful husband of 
only one woman, but we do not know with certainty, that 
anyone of the inmates of the harem is his lawful wife. If 
we find out that the Sultan is married, you know that 
the Greek church permits divorce in case of the infi- 
delity of one of the parties. Should you find that the 
Sultan is free to marry, may not the dire sorrows that 
surround us be a sufficient excuse for your accepting his 
offer ?” 

“Father, father, I am surprised. Would you see 
your daughter the wife of a Mussulman ?” 

“My child, marriage with an infidel is allowed in a 
case like this.” 

“Ho, father, never ! Moreover, what would Dimit- 
ries say?” 


216 


DIMITRIOS AN-D IREIsE. 


Dimitrios is still alive, he may be married by this 
time* How can you think of one who has been thus 
unfaithful to you ?” 

‘‘Dimitrios unfaithful ! Ho, I will not, cannot bo- 
lieve it. Eather would I believe that Mount Pindus 
should move itself and' float upon the waters of tho 
Propontis, than that Dimitrios is unfaithful.’’ 

“My child, will you then condemn yourself, your 
father, your brother, Basil, to a cruel death ?” 

“My dearest father, I love you more than tongue can 
express, my heart bleeds for Basil ; but, oh, death, yes 
death a thousand times, rather than dishonor !” 

“There will be no dishonor, if you become the lawful 
wife of the Sultan.” 

“But if I cannot become the wife of the Sultan ?” 

“In that case we must die together.” 

“How can I be unfaithful to Dimitrios 

“Dimitrios is not your husband ; you were engaged 
to him, and if that engagement had not been dissolved 
by his meanness, there would now be sufiicient reason 
to dissolve it.” 

“Oh,f ather ! tempt me not, my heart is breaking. Let 
me rest now, we will converse on this subject again.” 

“My poor child, forgive me if I have pained you. I 
will summon your maid, she will conduct you to your 
room.” 

“Ho, father, thank you. I would prefer to be alone.’' 

Irene kissed her father and arose to leave the room. 
Basil, who, thus far, had listened in silence, now rushed 
toward her. He cast himself upon his knees before 
her and, extending his hands imploringly, exclaimed : 

“Irene, be not hard-hearted,let your heart be touched. 
Yield to the entreaties of father, let not our blood be 


DIMITRIOS Ais'D IKEXE. 


217 


shed ; save him, Irene, save me, save yourself. Turn 
not a deaf ear to my prayers.' ’ 

‘‘What can I do, Basil, my poor brother ?” 

“Say yes to the Sultan, be his wife ; do, Irene, save 
us." 

“But, my brother, if it offends God ?” 

“It does not offend God, He could not be so cruel." 

“Basil, ask me no longer, let me rest now." 

Irene fled from the room. When she arrived in her 
own apartment, she cast herself upon her knees. With 
eyes raised to Heaven, and the hot tears streaming down 
her face, she prayed : 

“0 God' ! it is for Thee I am suffering. Help me in 
this hour of peril, turn not away Thy ears from the 
supplications of Thy handmaid,give not Thy inheritance 
to the beasts of prey. Touch the heart of my father, 
let him not become a tempter.” 

A sweet peace fell upon the soul of the afflicted girl, 
terror had vanished, for, though walking midst the 
shadows of death, she feared not evil, God was with 
her. Gradually her eyelids drooped, her head fell 
forward, she sank slowdy upon the ground, exhausted 
nature succumbed and a deep slumber lulled the 
emotions of her afflicted soul to rest. The hours passed, 
unheeded. Her maid coming to her room, found her 
lying upon the ground. Hastily she summoned 
Diogenes and, together, they laid her upon her couch- 

The next morning, Irene was too ill to rise. Several 
days passed, but her strength returned not. 

It was the morning of the twentieth, Diogenes entered 
her room. Advancing toward his child with cautious- 
tread, he laid his hand upon her forehead and spoke : 


21S 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREJ^E. 


‘‘My daughter, you appear somewhat stronger, do you 
feel better 

“I feel much stronger, father.” 

“Can you bear what I have to say ?” 

“Speak, father.” 

“My child, the Sultan is expected here to-night.” 

“To-night !” ejaculated the girl. 

“Yes, a courier has arrived in breathless haste, an- 
nouncing the monarch’s approach. The entire castle is 
in commotion, and innumerable preparations are being 
made for his reception.” 

“God help us !” exclaimed Irene. 

“Will you not accede to my proposition ?” 

Irene made no reply. 

“Think of your poor brother, your suffering father.” 

The girl wept in silence. 

“Irene have pity cn us, I ask you to do nothing 
wrong. Promise me that you will accede to the Sultan’s 
request, if you find you can do so without sin.” 

“Father, I cannot promise ; give me time.” 

“Time is short, my dear, the Sultan’s wrath is ter- 
rible.” 

“Fear not those that kill the body,” answered the 
girl. 

The door was suddenly burst open, a Turk entered, 
accompanied by a man whose face indicated that he 
was of Grecian origin, though he was clad in the 
Turkish costume. The latter spoke in Greek : 

“John Diogenes, the hour* of your deliverance is at 
hand ; prepare to follow us at midnight, we shall meet 
you in this room, leave the door open.” 

“What snares are being laid for us ?” cried Diogenes. 

“No snares at all. We are friends. Say not a word 


DIMITRIOS AXD lEE^sE. 


219 


of this to a mortal or you shall die. Do you not know 
IN^icolaus Lecapenos ? He will be your deliverer.” 

‘‘This is more than I can believe.” Grasping the 
man^s hand, he cried out : “Friend, friend, is it true ? 
Will Mcolaus save us ?” 

“Hush,” said the other, “not so loud. Nicolaus will 
save you.” 

“Brave youth ! Do you hear, Irene ?” 

She spoke not. 

“But,” asked Diogenes, “what if the Sultan arrives 
first ?” 

“The Sultan is not expected until morning. You 
have understood us ?” 

“Yes, we shall be in readiness.” 

The men, one of whom was Ali, disguised as a work- 
man, left the room. 

The day sped onward in its course, mid hopes and 
fears. A vessel was beating against the wind in the 
^Egean Sea. Since early morning it had been obliged to 
tack, in order to make a little progress, but it was still 
several miles from the Hellespont. Calm and adverse 
winds had, thus far, retarded it. Dimitrios paced the 
deck in the height of nervous agitation. From time to 
time, he would stop, gaze at the sails, or fix his eyes in 
the direction of the straits. He was clad in complete 
armor. At the bow of the vessel two men stood in 
■earnest conversation ; they were Selim and Fortuny. 
The former was still clad as a Turk, but the latter wore 
a full suit of steel. Some distance from them, two 
men, steel from head to foot, walked, arm in arm. We 
recognize Morosini and the fugitive from Constantinople 
whose narrative had so alarmed Dimitrios and whom 
Providence had brought on board this vessel in his hope 


220 


DIMITRIOS AXB IREXE. 


of obtaining a passage to the Islands. He had offered 
liis services to Selim. The crew consisted of six men, 
besides the captain. Indomitable courage was stamped 
upon the features of each ; they were adventurers from 
different countries in Europe. The ship on which they 
sailed was a corsair, but, this time, at least, she was on 
an honorable expedition. 

Hours wore away, but the wind changed not. Dark- 
ness was beginning to ©over the face of the deep. The 
impatienee of Himitrios was at its height. They had 
now reached the mouth of the Hellespont. At the 
entrance to the straits, a fair breeze sprung up, which 
swelled the sails and the vessel flew over the waters of 
the Hellespont. 

‘‘Thank God !” gasped Himitrios. 

It was eleven o’clock at night when they arrived at the 
point indicated by the old woman. The huge towers of 
the castle arose like grim sentinels in the darkness, 
rendering the waters still blacker by their shadows. 

“There within those walls,” said Himitrios to Moro« 
sini, “languishes Irene; I will save her or die!” 

The friends grasped each others hands in silence. 
Two boats were lowered. Into the flrst stepped Himit- 
rios, Morosini, Selim, Fortuny, two sailors and the old 
woman. The other boat folloTved with the strange 
Greek, two sailors, and the captain of the vessel. 
Helena was left on board in charge of the remaining 
men of the crew. Noiselessly the muffled oars cleaved 
the waters. In a short time the boats reached the 
land, where they were made fast. The men sprang 
ashore and helped the old woman to land. 

“Follow me,” she whispered to Selim, as she preceded 
the company. 


DIMITRIOS AJfD IREis’E. 


221 


All walked after her in single file. Suddenly she 
stopped, and, taking Selim by the arm, she spoke : 

“See yon those two men ? One of them is, no doubt, 
Nicolaus ; be on your guard.’’ 

Selim looked, and, half hidden in the bushes, he saw 
the dark figures of two persons. 

“Halt,” he spoke, in little more than a whisper, “lie 
flat on the ground.” 

All obeyed the injunction. Taking Morosini, For- 
tuny and the Greek by the arm, he bade them follow 
him, half creeping over the ground. They moved 
toward the rear of the men. 

“When you are near enough,” spoke Selim, “spring 
upon them.” 

Cautiously they advanced. Only a couple of yards 
separated them from their enemies. There was a rustle 
among the leaves, one of the men turned. In the 
twinkling of an eye, Morosini sprang upon him, and 
felled him to the ground. His companion darted off 
like an arrow, towards the water. 

“Speak not a word,” said Morosini, “or you are a dead 
man.” 

In a moment Nicolaus was bound hand and foot and 
gagged. Morosini handed him over to a sailor, who 
took him to the boat, laying him flat on his back in the 
bottom of the craft. The wretch was unable to stir. 

“JIow,” said the old woman, “take your positions.” 

The entire company united; all lay down except 
Selim, who remained standing where Nicolaus Lecapenos 
had stood, not far from the subterranean passage to the 
castle. 

While the rescuers of Irene remained on guard out- 
side of the castle, within the walls the deepest silence 


222 


DIMITRTOS IREI^E. 


prevailed. Diogenes and his children sat impatiently 
awaiting the moment that was to free them from the* 
Turks. They could hear the beating of their hearts. 
Every sound caused by the creaking of a door, the 
whistling of the wind or the shrieking of a night-owl,, 
caused them to start. The minutes seemed hours. 
Finally a soft footstep was heard outside the door, and 
a subdued voice reached their ears.: 

“Follow us.” 

Diogenes arose and, taking his children by the hand,, 
followed in the direction whence the voice came. 

“Gently!” spoke the unknown, “let not a sound be 
heard.” 

Two hands were laid upon Irene’s shoulders and a*, 
individual pushed her before him, as he said : 

“Quietly! tread lightly. Diogenes^ lay your hand on 
my shoulders, and take your son by the hand. Now, 
forward, as noiselessly as possible.” 

Together they groped their way through the corridor, 
then descended cautiously a flight of stairs, which 
seemed interminable. They had reached the door 
which communicated with the subterranean passage ; it 
was open. Irene stood near the threshold, when sud- 
denly the light of a torch fell upon them, and a voice 
cried ; 

“Hold, robber ; to the rescue, men !” 

Half a dozen Turks sprang forward. The man who 
held Irene relesased his hold, and started through the 
subterranean passage. He had escaped. 

“Treason !” cried Ali. 

“Treason, workman, what treason ? Where do you 
come from at this hour of the night ?” asked one of the 
Turks. 


DIMITRIOS AJTD IREXE. 


22B 


‘‘I heard the sound of voices and footsteps in this di- 
rection, Thinking that the Sultan had arrived, curi- 
osity directed me hither. Who would have thought 
that such things were happening? Where is the 
traitor 

“He has escaped,” cried a Turk. 

Diogenes and his small family were conducted back 
to their apartments and locked together in a room. 

The hour of midnight was approaching; with the 
greatest anxiety did the party outside of the castle 
keep their eyes riveted on the spot where they knew 
the entrance to the subterranean passage lay. At any 
moment Irene and her would-be-deliverer might come 
forth. Kot an instant did Dimitrios avert his gaze from 
the spot. The minutes dragged slowly along, his heart 
thumped within his bosom as though it would force 
itself out of his breast. Still all was silent, as silent as 
the tomb. The breeze had died away and not a leaf 
stirred upon the trees. 

“Hist !” whispered Fortuny, “do you hear ?” 

“There they come !” exclaimed the old woman in a 
low tone. 

“Attention !” spoke Selim. 

Suddenly a man sprang as it were out of the ground. 
In an instant, Morosini was at his side, holding him in 
an iron grasp. The stranger spoke a few unintelligible 
words in Turkish. Morosini replied in Greek : 

“Move not, if you value your life.” 

“I am a Greek,” replied the stranger in the same 
language. i 

“Where do you come from ?” asked Morosini. 

“From the castle — let me go, they are pursuing me.” 


224 


DIMITRIOS AKD IREKE. 


Moi’osini dragged him away from the spot towards 
his companions. 

^^What have you dono?^^ he asked, ^‘why are you 
flying ?” 

was attempting to rescue a Greek maiden from the 
Turks, but the wretches discovered the plot as we were 
-about to put it into a successful execution.” 

‘Ts the maiden still in the castle ?” 

‘‘Yes, in the power of those brutes, and the Sultan is 
expected before morning.” 

“Is there a garrison in the castle ?” 

“Ho, it is guarded only by ten men.” 

“Do you hear, comrades ?” 

“We hear,” sounded the reply. 

“What shall we do, brethren ?” 

Dimitrios had drawn his sword. Kaising it above his 
head, he cried out : 

“Forward, brothers, forward ! Follow me ; liberty 
for Irene, or — death !” 

“Be calm, Dimitrios,” remonstrated Selim, “let re- 
flection precede action. Men, I advise that we storm 
the castle. It is true ; they are ten, and we are only 
•eight, but we are better equipped.” 

Turning to the old woman, he said : 

“Return to the boat and await us.” 

“I will await you here,” she replied. 

To the fugitive from the castle Selim spoke ; 

“You shall serve us as a guide; but, beware man ! if 
you betray us, you die.” 

“Betray you ? I am- too glad to render assistance.” 

“Get the torches in readiness,” cried Selim, “and 
advance.” 

Steadily they marched forward. Reaching the en- 


DlillTRIOS AXD lEEXE. 


225 


trance to the j)assage, Morosini took the guide by the 
arm. The captain of the ship lit a torch, which cast an 
unearthly glare over the men, and revealed a long, dark 
passage that lay before them. 

^‘Advance !” cried Selim. 

Dimitrios, sword in hand, took the lead. The end 
of the passage was reached, they ascended a flight of 
stairs, at the head of which stood a door. It was 
locked. 

‘‘The door is locked !” exclaimed the guide. 

“Force it open !” cried Dimitrios. 

“To work men, with a will !” shouted Selim. 

The two sailors and the ship’s captain came forward 
with huge axes. It was clear that the door opened from 
the interior. 

“Strike away !” cried Dimitrios, impatiently. 

The axes swung in the brawny hands of the stalwart 
tars, they fell against the massive oaken door, which 
groaned under the shock. 

“Courage, men !” exclaimed the captain, “it is 
yielding.” 

The blows fell thick and fast. 

“It is yielding !” repeated a sailor. 

“Bravo !” exclaimed another, as a panel gave way and 
fell with a loud report that re-echoed through the long 
dismal corridor, in which even the low voices of the 
speakers assumed enormous volume. Still the blows 
fell, another panel was yielding. A confused sound of 
voices met then?, from the inside. 

“Forward with your torch !” commanded Selim. 

As the torch-bearer advanced, a bright light was 
thrown into the interior, which revealed a Turk rush- 
ing down the stairs. 


226 


DIMITBIOS AKD lEEXE. 


‘‘Forward, my men !” yelled Dimitrios, as he forced 
his way through the broken door, followed by the 
others. 

No sooner had the Turk beheld the armed men before 
him, than he halted, as if thunderstruck. 

“Come on, son of Belial,” Dimitrios fairly screamed. 

The Turk turned on his heels and ran up the stair- 
way, shouting at the top of his voice. Dimitrios was 
after him, taking two steps at a time, and crying : 

“Follow, brothers, follow. Here Byzantium, down 
with the infidels, down with Mahomet !” 

“Hold, Dimitrios ! do not separate from the rest,” 
Selim’s voice sounded. 

“Lead the way, ’ ’ cried Morosini to the guide. 

“This way, countrymen, this way, up the stairs. ’ ’ 

Hp the .stairs they rnshed. Dimitrios had outrun 
them in his eagerness. They heard the clash of arms^ 

“Forward ! ’ ’ cried Selim. 

As they reached the headof the stairs, they saw Dimit- 
rios, surrounded by several Mussulmans. With his 
shield he parried the blows of their scimitars, while he 
wielded his broadsword with deadly effect. One man 
lay already writhing upon the ground. As the Turks 
beheld the reinforcement arrive above the head of the 
stairs, they retreated toward the door where Diogenes 
and his family were locked, while the Greeks pressed 
hard upon them. With their backs to the door, the 
Turks fought furiously. 

“Surrender your prisoners,” cried in the Turkish 
tongue Selim, who stood in the background without 
taking part in the fray. 

“Never !” replied the chieftain of the Turks. 

“Then die, wretch,” cried Dimitrios, as he cast him- 


DIMITRIOS AKD IllEXE. 


227 


self upon the Mahometan, who, by a skillful movement, 
evaded the sword of his antagonist, which stuck into 
the wood of the door. The Turk raised his scimitar 
above the head of Dimitrios, who dexterously received 
the blow upon his shield, and, at the same time, disen- 
gaging his sword from the wood, thrust it through the 
body of the unfortunate chieftain, who fell without a 
groan. The Turks, seeing this, rushed simultaneously 
upon Dimitrios. His comrades ^ closed in around him. 
Swords clashed with swords, the blows of the Turks 
fell almost harmless upon the armored bodies of the 
Greeks, but one of the sailors lay wounded upon the 
ground. The other one, a young Genoese, fought like 
a lion. Seeing a Turk making a movement as if to 
sever the head of Morosini, he rushed upon him, caught 
his arm, and plunged a dagger into his breast. 

“Bravo, Cristoforo ! ’ ’ cried the captain. 

A Turk rushed wildly upon Fortuny. The latter, 
parrying the blow of his scimitar, caught him around 
the waist and flung him to the ceiling, whence he fell 
with a heavy thud to 1 he ground. 

“Surrender ! ’ ’ again cried Selim. 

The Turks, seeing that resistance was useless, as only 
four of their number were left to fight against six, most 
of whom were armored, threw down their swords and 
cried for quarter. They were immediately surrounded 
by the Greeks, who demanded the keys of the apart- 
ment. They hung upon the girdle of the dead chief- 
tain. The swords of the Turks were now collected to- 
gether by young Cristoforo, so that they might be ren- 
dered harmless. 

“Who will open the door?" asked Dimitrios, adding i 


228 


DIMITEIOS AXD lEEi^E 


‘‘I would rather not go in too suddenly, lest the shock 
might prove injurious to Irene.” 

Morosini took the key, unlocked the door, and pushed 
it open. Irene knelt upon the ground, trembling with 
fear, while her eyes were raised to Heaven. Her father 
stood erect, gazing at the entrance, while Basil clung 
to him, as though fearful of being dragged away by 
force. 

‘‘Kejoice, Diogenes,” said Morosini, ‘‘thy deliverance 
has been effected, thou art free, follow us without 
delay. ’ ’ 

“Who art thou ? ’ ’ inquired the prisoner. 

“It matters not, thou wilt soon know ; I am a Chris- 
tian and a friend, lose no time.” 

Taking Irene and Basil by the hand, Diogenes 
walked out of the room in which they had been locked. 
The Turks lay bound upon the ground, while their 
dead comrades were scattered around them. 

“They are harmless now, ’ ’ said the captain of the 
ship, giving one of them a kick. 

Placing the rescued captives in the middle, and 
raising their wounded comrade, the victors descended 
the stairs, walked through the subterranean passage, 
and passed out into the open air. The old woman, 
who had been anxiously awaiting them, ran towards 
them, exclaiming: 

“Thank God, they have been successful!” 

“Lose no time, ’ ’ cried Selim, “to the boats I ’ * 

On reaching the landing, they placed Diogenes and 
his children, with two sailors, in charge of Morosini, 
while the others sprang into the boat in which lay 
Hicolaus. The return to the vessel was made in per- 
fect silence ; no one spoke a word and no sound broke 


DIMITRIOS AND IREifE. 


221 ) 

the stillness of the night, save the dipping of the oars 
into the water. The hull of the ship lay motionless 
upon the placid waters, no breath stirred the lifeless 
atmosphere. 

They had reached the deck; Selim approached the 
group, consisting of the family of Diogenes and 
Morosini. 

‘‘Let us thank God, gentle lady,” he said, “for your 
deliverance out of the hands of the infidel. ’ ’ 

Irene fell upon her knees and, for a few moments, 
remained in silent prayer ; then she arose, cast herself 
upon her father ’s breast, giving vent to tears and sobs, 
indicative of her emotion. 

“You need rest,” spoke Selim, “will you allow us to 
conduct you to the cabin ?” 

Meanwhile, the captain’s voice was heard giving 
orders to the crew ; oars were put out, as the sails were 
useless in the calm, and the ship headed for the ^gean 
Sea. 

“Where is Nicolaus Lecapenos?” asked Diogenes, 
“may we not express our thanks to him ?” 

‘^Nicolaus,” replied Selim, “is a prisoner on this 
vessel ; he deserves no thanks. ’ ’ 

“Nicolaus a prisoner ! deserves no thanks ! What 
mystery is this ? Is not Nicolaus our deliverer ?” 

“You are mistaken, noble sir, you owe not your 
deliverance to Nicolaus, but to another, with whom you 
are acquainted, a heroic son of Byzantium ! ’ ’ 

“To whom ?” exclaimed Irene, “tell us his name, that 
we may cast ourselves at his feet. ’ ’ 

“You know him, lady, you esteem him highly.” 

“I know him ? I esteem him ? Keep me not in 
suspense, I pray.” 


230 


DIMITRIOS AI^D lEE^TE. 


‘‘Lady, sudden joy may prove as injurious as sudden 
grief. ’ ’ 

“But suspense is worse tLan death. ’ ’ 

“Your deliverer is dear to you, suspect you not who 
he is 

“Where is our deliverer?” cried the maiden, “let us 
see him.” 

“Suspect you not who he is ? ” 

“I dare not give expression to my thoughts ; there is 
one, who, I know, would risk his life for me. ’ ’ 

“And that one is — ?” 

“Alas! I dare not hope it is he, the disappointment 
would be my death.’ ’ 

“Perhaps you are not mistaken. Know you the 
family of Phocas ? ’ ’ 

“Am I right ? Oh, tell me, is it Dimitrios ?” 

“You have said it, lady, Dimitrios Phocas is your 
deliverer. ’ ’ 

“Oh, where is he ?” cried the girl, “where is Dimit- 
trios, why does he not come forward ? ” 

The figure of a man advanced in the darkness. 

“Hold, Irene ! ” cried her father, “ I suspect there 
has been treachery. Why is Kicolaus a prisoner 

“There has been treachery,” replied Selim, “black, 
infernal treachery, but not on the part of Dimitrios. 
You will soon know all, and then you will make amends 
for your credulity.’ ’ 

Irene, paying no attention to what was said, again 
cried out: 

“Oh, bring Dimitrios to me!” 

“There is Dimitrios,” said Selim, as the youth ad- 
vanced. 


DIMITRIOS AXD IREKE. 


231 


Irene flew to him; Dimitrios knelt before her, and 
taking one of her hands, kissed it, saying: 

‘‘God be praised, my lady Eirene, thou art restored 
to me. Dost thou still believe me guilty ?’ ’ 

“Believe thee guilty, Dimitrios ? When did I believe 
thee guilty ? The rocks might split asunder, the sun 
lose its light and the stars their splendor, but Eirene ’s 
heart would never believe in thy guilt.” 

“Oh, thanks, a thousand thanks ! I knew it was a 
calumny cast upon thy love. ’ * 

“Arise, Dimitrios, kneel not to me, rather should I 
cast myself upon my knees before thee. But, tell me, 
who did thus calumniate me ? ’ * 

“Who ? One who is now a prisoner on this vessel. ’ * 
“Nicolaus? The wretch!” 

“Yes, Irene, it was Nicolaus, the holy pilgrim.” 
“Great God!” exclaimed Diogenes, “a light arises 
before me ; what mystery of iniquity is here ? Dimit- 
rios, I have wronged thee, explain and ease my heart. ’ ’ 
“Not to-night, father,” answered the youth, “take 
first your rest, to-morrow you shall know all. ’ * 

Irene was now conducted to the after part of the 
ship, covered by a roof, which served as a cabin. As 
her eyes fell upon Helena, she rushed to the girl ’s arms, 
exclaiming : 

“Oh, my sister, my long lost sister, this joy is too 
great for earth ! ’ ’ 

The two girls fell into each other’s arms and wept in 
silence. 

When the first rays of dawn illumined the horizon, 
they found the vessel sailing before the wind on the 
blue waters of the iEgean Sea. Diogenes was up before 
the sun. Immediately he sought Selim, whom he found 


232 


DIMITRIOS AND IRENE. 


■with Morosini. From the lips of the latter, he heard, 
with sorrow in his soul, the story of the treachery of 
Nicolaus, the murder of Leila, the escape of Lecapenos, 
and the incidents of the rescue, 

‘‘I will to him at once, ’ ’ said Diogenes, “I will kneel 
at his feet, I will implore his pardon. ’ ’ 

As he spoke, a young woman approached the group 
from a remote corner of the vessel. It was her first 
appearance on board ; all eyes were turned upon her. 
A shriek was heard, proceeding from the how of the 
vessel : 

‘‘Save me, save me ! It is her ghost ! ’ ’ 

As Diogenes turned, he beheld Nicolaus, bound hand 
and foot, lying on the deck, with his head raised, and 
his eyes, starting from their sockets, intently fixed upon 
the approaching figure of the woman. 

Morosini had not removed his gaze from her : 

“It is she,” he spoke, “it is her j spirit, the spirit of 
Angela.” 

“No, not a spirit,” replied the woman, “it is Angela 
herself, Angela Ladrazzoni, the unfortunate Leila, 
now a repentant Magdalene. ’ ’ 

Morosini could not believe his eyes. 

“Be not astonished,” she continued, “it is I. My 
life has been spared for a wise purpose. You thought 
me dead; I live. My wound, though dangerous, was 
not mortal; the ministrations of a Good Samaritan 
brought me back from the border of the tomb. I was 
the old woman whom Providence sent as an instrument 
for the deliverance of Irene. ’ ’ 

“Wretch,” cried Selim, as he turned toward Nicolaus, 
“did I not tell thee that thy tool might some day cub 
thee?” 


DIMITRIOS IREKE. 


233 


‘‘There, ’ ’ exclaimed Angela, as she pointed toward 
the unfortunate man, “there is the guilty one, whose 
calumny brought untold sorrow upon a happy family, 
the monster who ruined my life, then steeped his hands 
in my blood. There is the guilty one, Dimitrios is 
innocent. ’ ’ 

“Father in Heaven,^’ exclaimed Diogenes, “why 
did’ts Thou permit it ! ” 

Within a few moments the contrite man had cast 
himself before Dimitrios, imploring his forgiveness. 
The latter raised him up and embraced him, as he 
spoke : 

“My father, let all be buried in the grave of the 
past. ’ ’ 

Diogenes summoned his daughter, and placing her 
hand in that of her betrothed, spoke : 

“My children, God has united you, you belong to' 
each other. ’ ’ 

Irene’s eyes fell, as she slowly pronounced the words 

“In eternity.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Joy reigned on board the ship. Days of darkness and 
terror were at an end. Although it was with feelings of 
horror, that those who had witnessed the fall of Con- 
stantinople, looked back upon the bloody scenes that 
had there been enacted, the present contained so much 
of joy that it forced the sorrowful to the background, 
for in present happiness man is prone to forget that 
which was bitter in the past. However, this pictui’e had 
also its shade. Sullen and gloomy, Mcolaus gazed 
upon the joy of those whom he considered his enemies. 
The old hatred against Dimitrios had returned to his 
heart with renewed force, and, concentrated within him- 
self, he seemed to be brooding over new plans of re- 
Tenge. Dimitrios, prompted by the generous impulses 
of his heart, had endeavored to enter into conversation 
with the unfortunate man, but he was every time 
repulsed by the wretch who turned away his face from 
him. 

Nothing at first occurred to disturb the pleasure of 
the voyage ; the sea was calm, and a light breeze im- 
pelled the vessel, which, with her white sails filled by 
the wind, seemed an immense swan floating over the 
peaceful wrters. She passed the Turkish galleys in 
safety, protected by the standard of the Moorish king- 
dom of Grenada, which floated from her mast-head. 
Off the coast of Troas, Dimitrios pointed out to Irene 
and Helena, the direction, where, some miles from the 


DIMITKIOS AXD IKEXE. 


235 


«ea, lay tlie ancient city of Troy, celebrated iji Homeric 
legends, and, as he recalled its fate, he could not help 
paying the tribute of a tear to his own loved city of 
Byzantium. Leaving the western coast of Asia Minor, 
they sailed partly around the Island of Mitylene, and 
headed directly for the channel between Scio and the 
coast of Ionia; thence passing to the west of Samos, they 
reached Patmos, renowned as the spot where St. John 
the Evangelist was privileged to behold the wonderful 
visions of the Apocalypse. 

It was a bright afternoon. The sky was nearly cloud- 
less, the sea barely ruffled by the breeze, and all nature 
seemed to breathe peace and tranquility, so different 
from the fierce passions that were animating the human 
breast in various countries of the known globe. A flock 
of land birds soared high in the heavens, while an occa- 
sional sea-gull hovered around the ship, forming semi- 
circles in the air, and, again dipping into the water. The 
happy group sat upon the deck in admiration of the scene. 

^‘How lovely,” spoke Selim, ‘^must not the sojourn of 
St. John have been upon yonder island ! Far from the 
bustle and turmoil of the world, he might give himself 
over to the delights of contemplation. With what long- 
ing I look forward to my monastic home! Divine Prov- 
idence has afforded me this opportunity of escape, I will 
not reject it, for I consider that my mission among the 
Turks is at an end. Henceforth I am Selim no longer, 
I am Father Gregorio again, and, as soon as possible, I will 
once more clothe myself in my monastic habit.” 

‘^Why not immediately. Father Gregorio?” asked 
Helena, ‘^Irene and myself will make you a habit. Show 
ns how it is made.” 

The religious, pleased with this offer, sketched for the 


23(3 


DIMITRIOS AXD III EX E. 


girls the habit of the Order of Mercy, and the two ladies,, 
full of enthusiasm, immediately set to work. The ship 
was ransacked in all directions for the required material. 
The captain, though a Mohamedan, lent them aid, and 
a few yards of white flannel were discovered. Work 
was immediately begun, continued and even protracted 
far into the night. Finally the task was accomplished,, 
and, the next morning. Father Gregorio appeared on 
deck in the white robes of his Order, with the arms of 
Arragon on his breast, to the great surprise of the crew, 
and the delight of his friends. Nicolaus gazed at him 
wdth mingled wonder and rage. Irene had learned of 
the conversion of Dimitrios and Helena, and she, too, 
had placed herself under the instructions of Father 
Gregorio, determined to embrace the faith of the Latins, 
if she could be persuaded. Her father, however, held 
aloof. Time passed pleasantly away. Dimitrios, touched 
with compassion at the miserable condition of Nicolaus, 
had persuaded his companions to loosen his fetters, 
although he was rendered harmless by the constant 
vigilance of two sailors whom the captain had placed 
over him as a guard. The ship was now off the most 
south-western point of Asia Minor, at only a few miles 
distance from the land, and running before the wind. 
It was a clear and starlit night. The passengers were 
on the deck 'in various groups, Dimitrios and Morosini 
in earnest conversation, while Father Gregorio enter^ 
tained Irene and Helena on the primacy of the Eoman 
Pontiff. Suddenly a man rushed toward the stern of 
the vessel ; in an instant two sailors were in hot pursuit, 
but they were too late. With the velocity of a deer, 
chased by the hounds, the fugitive bounded up the 


DIMITIIIOS AXD IRENE. 237 

ladder to the after deck. Without arresting his prog- 
ress, he cried in a loud voice : 

“Farewell, Irene, farewell forever; Xicolaus seeks 
rest beneath the waves 

As the last word was uttered, he stood at the stern of 
the ship — Dimitrios rushed forward, Nicolaus threw up 
Ms hands, his body leaned forward, he had disappeared. 
As he vanished over the side he was heard to exclaim 
again : 

“Farewell, Irene, farewell forever!” 

The ship lay to, a boat was lowered, but all search 
proved in vain. The darkness of night covered the 
waves. An hour was spent without result, and finally 
the search was abandoned. Such was the fate of the 
unha2:)py being who had wrecked his life, for the grat- 
ification of his passions. Dimitrios mourned sincerely 
the loss of the unfortunate man, and Angela shed a 
tear for him who had been her greatest enemy, while 
she prayed God to have mercy on his soul. 

Finding that the search had been useless, the captain 
ordered the ship to hold to her course, and she headed 
directly for the Island of Rhodes. During the night 
the wind changed, and it hebame necessary to tack in 
order to reach the port. When day dawned, the vessel 
lay in full view of the famous island, then in jiossession 
of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem. 
Thinking it might be dangerous to enter this Christian 
port with the flag of the Moors, the captain hailed a 
passing vessel and sent word to the, authorities on shore 
that he carried Christian refugees from Constantinople, 
Meanwhile he lay to, awaiting an answer. 

Dimitrios and Morosini leaned against the bulwarks, 
looking toward the island ; on the after deck sat Helena 


238 


DIMITEIOS AXD IKEJy^E. 


and Irene. The latter appeared pale and languid^ 
Father Gregorio was reciting his office, while Fortuny 
entertained the Greek from Constantinople with nar« 
ratives of his travels and adventures. Angela was en- 
gaged in preparing refreshments for Irene, to whom she 
was most assiduous in her attentions. 

“What an extraordinary island !” exclaimed Dimit- 
ries, as he fixed his eyes upon the land. 

“Yes,” replied Morosini, “it has had a wonderful his- 
tory. It was once the most renowned state in Greece, 
and, after the death of Alexander the Great, its mag- 
nificence was unsurpassed and it took its place among^ 
the most warlike nations of the world. It formed a 
part of the Koman Empire until the reign of Androni- 
cus II, at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning 
of the last century. The nobles having revolted, in- 
voked the Saracens, who occupied the island until 1309. 
Foulques de Yillaret was then Grand-Master of the Order 
of St. John, which had its headquarters in Cyprus; he. 
called upon the Emperor Andronicus at Constantinople, 
and the latter gave him the investiture of the island for 
himself and his order, on condition that he should wrest 
it from the infidels. Pope Clement V. confirmed this 
donation and aided the Knights in the conquest of the 
island. On August 15, 1309, the island fell into the 
hands of the Knights, who have held it ever since. It 
was several times besieged by the MaKometans, namely, 
in 1310, in 1321, and in 1444, but always unsuccess- 
fully. The capital, also called Ehodes, is strongly for- 
tified and well-nigh impregnable.” 

In the midst of these conversations, the day passed 
away, until about two o’clock in the afternoon, when 


t 


DIMITKIOS Ais-D IREisE. 239 

signals were perceived, made by a vessel that lay between 
them and the land. 

‘^We may enter the harbor,’’ cried the captain. 

The ship which had been sailing to and fro before 
the island, now swung around and headed directly for 
the harbor. In a short while the immense walls of the 
city stood before them, and objects on shore became dis- 
tinctly visible. The vessel cast anchor, boats were low- 
ered, and the Christian travelers, having bade farewell 
to the captain, whom Selim amply rewarded, stepped 
into them. As they approached near to the shore, 
Dimitrios, pointing with his finger, asked of Morosini : 

“Who is that man in the black robe, with an eight- 
pointed white cross on the left side ?” 

“He is one of the Knights,” answered Morosini, “the 
eight-pointed cross is the distinctive mark of the^ 
order.” 

“Can you tell me who is at present the Grand- 
Master ?” 

“His name is John de Lassie. He is a native of 
Auvergne, in France, and he has been Grand-Master for 
twenty-two years, which dignity was conferred upon 
him after the death of his predecessor, Antonio Flurian,. 
that occurred in 1431.” 

. They had now reached the shore, where several 
Knights were drawn up in line to welcome the fugi- 
tives and hear of the fall of Constantinople. The new- 
comers were pressed by questions on all sides, to which 
they gladly responded. One of the most distinguished 
of the Knights, a Grand Cross of the Order, offered to 
procure a house for the entire party, which offer was 
most thankfully accepted, and, in a short time,all found 
themselves comfortably lodged in a spacious dwellings 


t 


240 DIMITRIOS AJ^-D IREi^E. 

Towards evening, Father Gregorio, Morosini and 
Dimitrios paid their respects to the Grand-Master and 
to the Archbishop. Both these dignitaries listened 
with the greatest interest to their recital of the exciting 
and terrible events of the last few months. 

The next morning the company were astir at an early 
hour, but one of the number was missing. When 
Dimitrios entered the room where they were gathered, 
after the first salutation his eyes wandered around, but 
they rested not on an object they sought. 

^‘She is not here yet,” said Helena, laughing. 

Dimitrios endeavored to conceal his disappointment 
and seated himself, joining in the conversation. Time 
passed, but Irene appeared not. 

‘‘Where can Irene be ?” finally exclaimed 1 er father. 

“No doubt she is tired from journeying and in need 
of rest,” replied Helena, “I will go to her room.” 

As she ran out of the apartment, she met at the door 
Angela, who exclaimed : 

“Come quickly, quickly, the lady Irene is ill.” 

Without a word, Helena rushed to the girFs room. 
As she entered, she drew back astonished. Irene’s face 
wore a crimson hue, her eyes were glassy, and they had • 
a peculiar stare in them. 

“Irene, my dear, what ails thee ?” asked the sister of 
Dimitrios, in a sympathetic tone. 

Putting her hand to her forehead, she replied : 

“My head, oh, my head !” 

“I will send for your father.” 

“Yes,” whispered the sick girl. 

Angela ran to the room where the company was 
gathered, and whispered something to Diogenes, who. 


DlMITlilOS AXD IREisE. 


241 


at once, arose and left the apartment, while Dimitrios 
followed him uneasily with his eyes. 

A physician was at once sent for. On his arrival, he 
declared that, in consequence of the terrible mental 
strain she had gone through, the poor girl was pros- 
trated. At the present moment she was in a burning 
fever. It is impossible to imagine the alarm that seized 
Dimitrios, when this announcement was made to him ; 
hut the declaration of the physician that the indisposi- 
tion would, probably, pass away in a few days, was a 
star of hope. Days went, but Irene was no better — 
Dimitrios implored God to restore his betrothed to 
health, but his prayer remained unanswered. On the 
fifth morning after their arrival at Rhodes, gloom seemed 
to have settled over the household, and the face of each 
one was overcast by a cloud. Dimitrios had just 
returned from a church dedicated to the Mother of 
God, where he had received the Holy Communion. As 
he entered the house, he was met by Angela, who thus 
addressed him : 

‘‘The lady Irene desires to speak to you.” 

In an instant he was at her door. Being admitted 
into the room, he found her father seated beside her. 
Except the light of a feeble lamp, which cast a dim 
reflection over the countenance of Irene Diogenes, the 
room was in darkness. It seemed to Dimitrios as 
though the shadows of death had, already, been cast over 
the apartment. In silence he knelt beside the patient, 
she fixed her eyes upon him, and smiled, then, in a fee- 
ble voice, spoke : 

“Dimitrios, be nob sad ; remember, we are Christians.” 

“Oh, Irene ! what wilt thou say to me ?” 

“Be seated, Dimitrios, and listen.” 


242 DIMITKIOS AXD IREXE. 

The youth did as she hade him, while tears moistened 
his eyelids; Diogenes held his eyes fixed upon his 
daughter. The girl continued : 

‘‘Dimitrios, hast thou heard the verdict of the physi- 
cian 

He answered not, hut, burying his face in his hands, 
wept like a child. 

‘‘Weep not, Dimitrios, is not life a sad dream 

The youth cast himself upon his knees, exclaiming : 

“0 God, my God ! this is too hard to bear, to suffer 
shipwreck in the very harbor 

“Speak not thus, Dimitrios, arise from thy knees and 
calm thy agitation.’’ 

Young Phocas again seated himself, while Irene con- 
tinued : 

“My dearest brother, thus will I call thee forever, our 
parting will be only for a short time. I go hence to a 
land where peace perpetual reigns, but thou wilt follow 
me. I know that human skill has exhausted its efforts. 
I feel that life is ebbing, but before I go, I will take a 
step which will compensate thee for my loss. God’s 
light shines before my eyes, I will return to the faith 
my fathers abandoned — my doubts have vanished, and 
it seems as though the brightness of the Eternal Vision 
already casts its reflection over my soul. We have in- 
formed the Archbishop of my resolution. He knows 
our history and he will come himself to receive me into 
the bosom of the Church. Oh, the joy of that blessed 
moment !” 

The inspiration of the dying girl was such that her 
supernatural happiness communicated itself to the 
heart of Dimitrios, and helped to dispel the darkness 
of his sorrowing soul, which was being purified in the 


DIMITRIOS IRENE. 


243 


crucible of the most dire affliction. The Archbishop 
was expected to arrive within an hour. The room of 
Irene had been adorned for the occasion. Dimitrios 
noticed now for the first time, so absorbed had his 
attention been, that a table with a crucifix and candles 
had been prepared for the reception of the Holy Eu- 
charist. Bouquets of the choicest flowers were taste- 
fully arranged around the apartment, while a most 
delicate perfume spread itself over the air. 

At the appointed time, the tinkling of a bell an- 
nounced the approach of the Blessed Sacrament, borne 
by the Archbishop under a canopy of white silk, held 
by four clerics, while others preceded him with lighted 
tapers in their hands. At the sound of the bell, 
Dimitrios and Diogenes fell upon their knees. As the 
ecclesiastics accompanying the Blessed Sacrament 
entered the room, they were followed by Father 
Gregorio, Morosini, Fortuny and Angela. All knelt 
down, nor was there a dry eye in the apartment. The 
piety of Dimitrios showed itself in his whole demeanor, 
but the grief stamped upon his features was pitiful in 
the extreme. 

The Archbishop, having placed the sacred Pyxis 
upon the corporal, turned toward Irene, and, in a 
fatherly voice, asked her in Latin, with which the sick 
girl was familiar : 

‘‘My daughter, dost thou believe in God, the Father 
Almighty, the Creator of Heaven and earth 

The reply sounded in a low but firm tone : 

^^Credo, I believe.” 

“Dost thou believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son our 
Lord, who suffered and who was crucified ?” 

“Oedo.” 


244 


DIMITRIOS AND IREKE. 


“Dost tliou believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy 
Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the for- 
giveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the 
life everlasting?” 

Irene’s face brightened, her eyes sparkled, a halo 
seemed to surround her as she answered: 

“Credo.” 

“Dost thou believe that the Holy Ghost proceedeth 
from the Father and the Son ?” 

“Credo.” 

“Believest thou in the supremacy of jurisdiction of 
the Bishop of Eome, the successor of St. Peter, the 
Vicar of Christ ?” 

“Credo, credo, firmissime credo — I believe, I believe, 
I believe most firmly,” cried the girl, with energy. 

The Prelate knowing that, although the physician 
had declared the girl could not recover, still death was 
not imminent, had asked for the edification of those 
present, these questions which, otherwise, might have 
been reduced to very few words. 

One of the assistants now recited the con- 
fession or conflteor, and the Bishop, turning to the 
girl, absolved her from all censure, in virtue of the 
authority delegated to him by the Sovereign Pontiff. 
The prelate, in company of all j)resent, now withdre w, 
leaving alone with Irene a venerable friar of the order 
of St. Francis, a man well versed in the Greek tongue. 
They waited outside until her confession was finished. 
It lasted a short time, for, no doubt, grievous sin had 
never blighted the virginal fiower that seemed about to 
be transplanted from earth to Paradise, and Irene, who 
was well instructed, could, with the aid of her confessor, 
sum up her transgressions in a few words. When the 


DIMITRIOS AJn'D IREXE. 


245 


friar came forth, the Archbishop and the other persons 
re-entered the room. The solemn moment had no^v 
arrived, the priestly hand held the Sacred Host, upon 
which the eyes of Irene were riveted. As though 
moved by an inspiration, the Archbishop spoke: 

‘^Child of God, thou beholdest Him now in a cloud 
and in obscurity, thou soon shalt see Him as He is.” 

^^Facie ad faciem, from face to face,” added Irene. 

^^Eoce Agnus Dei ! Behold the Lamb of God, that 
taketh away the sins of the world,” spoke the Bishop ; 
then, approaching the girl and making the sign of the 
Cross with the Sacred Host, he pronounced the words : 

‘‘Keceive, sister, the Viaticum of the Body of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, and may it preserve thee from the 
wicked enemy and lead thee to eternal life. Amen.” 

The head of Dimitrios was deeply bowed, tears 
coursed down his cheeks. How awful was that mo- 
ment ! Perfect resignation filled his heart, but it was 
the resignation of Gethsemane. In the depths of his 
soul he prayed : 

‘‘Father, if it be possible, let the chalice pass,” but, 
he added, too : “not my will, but thine be done.” 

Irene had now received her first Holy Conmiunion 
after her union with the great body of the faithful, and 
happiness beamed from every feature of her countenance. 
The Sacrament of Extreme Unction was now admin- 
istered to her, while the assistants recited the Peniten- 
tial Psalms. The ceremony was over, all left the room, 
save Diogenes, who still knelt beside his daughter. For 
a long time Irene prayed in silence. Finally, laying 
her hand upon her father’s head, she spoke : 

“Father, promise me one thing, and I will die happy.” 

“I promise all, my child,” he replied, in tears. 


246 


DIMITKIOS IREKE. 


‘‘Promise that you will endeavor to follow my ex- 
ample, or, at least, that you will try to find the 
truth, and, having found it, that you will have the 
courage to embrace it.” 

“You have my word, Irene, and you know how faith- 
ful that word is.” 

“Oh, thanks, thanks, dear father ! now may I depart 
hence in peace.” 

The day passed away, but there was no change in the 
patient’s condition. Dimitrios visited her as often as 
possible, while Helena never left her bedside. 

The next morning there was a marked improvement. 
The girl’s voice was stronger, her pains had decreased 
and she rested more quietly. A ray of light streamed 
into the household ; for the first time in several days a 
smile passed over those who moved noiselessly about. 
Keader, did you ever notice the fiame of a candle that is 
nearing its end ? Gradually it grows fainter, then, sud- 
denly, it brightens up as if to bid farewell; for a moment 
it shines with nnwonted brilliancy, then the brightness 
wanes, until it goes over into darkness. Was it thus 
with Irene ? 

Certainly there had been an improvement. But, alas ! 
how vain are human hopes ! The afternoon came, and, 
with it a change for the worst. Diogenes sat beside his 
daughter. 

“Father,” she spoke, “send for Dimitrios.” 

Within a few moments the heart-broken young man 
knelt beside the bed of her to whom his heart clung, 
but whom death was fast separating from him. If ever 
you visit Westminster Abbey, reader, fail not to see the 
chapel of St. John the Evangelist. There you will find 
a monument to Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale and his 


DIMITKIOS AND IREKE. 


247 


Lady. As I write of the sorrows of Diniitrios, that 
monument comes back yividly to my mind. The lady 
is represented expiring in the arms of her husband ; 
grim Death, creeping from a tomb, points his dart at 
her, while the husband, struck with despair, endeavors 
to shield her against the attack of the foe. Dimitrios 
had lost all hope, and yet, oh, how ardently he would 
have snatched Irene from the enemy! but, who can 
resist death ? The brave young soldier had stood in 
the front ranks of the defenders of a large city, and 
now he is powerless to defend her whom he loves best. 

Turning her dying eyes upon him, Irene spoke : 

^'Dimitrios, are you resigned 

He raised his eyes to Heaven, and with clasped hands, 
pronounced the words : 

‘‘Father, Thy will be done I” 

“There,” said Irene, as she pointed her finger up- 
ward, ‘-there we shall meet, to part no more. There 
shall be no sorrow, nor sickness, nor pain, nor death. I 
have lived as the roses live, the brief space of a morn- 
ing, for what else has been my life ? Yet, I die happy, 
for I am going to our true country, I am going to await 
you in the bosom of an endless rest.” 

Diniitrios could not utter a word, his emotion choked 
him. His sister knelt beside him, bathed in tears. 
Lasting her eyes upon her, Irene spoke : 

“Helena, summon the others.” 

Basil was already in the room, kneeling beside the 
bed with his head leaning upon his sister’s hand,speech- 
less with grief. The other inmates of the house were 
in the vicinity. At the first summons, they entered the 
chamber of death and knelt around the couch. Irene’s 
dying voice sounded : 


248 


DIMITRIOS A^TD IKEKE 


‘‘My friends, I am going liome, not to Byzantium 
that I shall never see again on earth, hut to J erusalem, 
the city of eternal peace. I am going, but you will all 
soon follow me; envy me not my happiness — soon I 
shall see God. Is not this promised to the pure in 
heart ? See God ! Oh, the ineffable delight ! As a 
mariner towards the end of his journey catches sight of 
the land, before he enters the harbor, thus do I catch a 
glimpse of the promised land. You are still too far 
away to see the things I see, and hear the things I 
hear. To see God, and contemplate ijie Infinite, the 
always new and always old, the first cause and last end 
of all things, the source of all that is and all that 
moves, the Prototype of this vast and glorious universe, 
to be plunged in a shoreless ocean of ineffable delight 
without fear of losing it, to find new joys in every 
moment of an endless duration ; such is the bliss in 
store for me. Pare well earth, thy joys sink into insig- 
nifigance. . As the stars vanish before the brightness of 
the rising sun, thus vanish earthly joys of time before 
thy radiant light, eternity. Parewell, friends, once 
more, it is only for a brief period. Farewell, sweet 
Basil, my brother, be faithful to your God ; f arew'ell 
father, I will remember you before the Throne; and 
thou, Helena, my sister, death shall not part us. Fare« 
well, Dimitrios, we believe in the .communion of saints, 
we have loved each other here, the tomb is only a 
bridge, my spirit shall hover over you. I come, mj 
God, I come. Let thy servant depart in peace,” 

The voice of Irene was silent, her eyelids drooped, 
her breathing became heavier. Father Gregorio began 
the prayers for the agonizing, which were joined in by- 


DIMITKIOS IREisE. 


34 ^ 


all present, mid tears and sobs. In voices broken by 
grief, the response was repeated at the litany. 

‘‘Pray for her,” resounded mid the shadows of the ' 
tomb. 

“Go forth, 0, Christian soul!” said the priest, “in 
the name of God, the Father Almighty, who created 
thee; in the name of Jesus Christ the Son of the Living 
God, who suffered for thee; in the name of the Holy 
Ghost, who has been poured upon thee.” 

He stopped, cast his eyes upon her, and listened at- 
tentively. Her breathing had ceased. He arose, ap- 
proached the bed, and raised her hand; it fell back 
lifeless. The girl had fallen asleep — asleep into that 
slumber whence there is no awakening until the day 
when the grave shall surrender its dead. Her soul had 
winged its flight to God. The priest fell upon his 
knees as he repeated the words : 

“Eternal rest, give unto her, 0, Lord ! and let per- 
petual light shine upon her.” 

“Oh, my child, my darling child !” cried Diogenes, as 
he threw himself upon the face of the corpse, “my 
child, hast thou left thy father ?” 

Basil broke out in loud sobs, Helena buried her face 
in her hands and wept in silence ; even Fortuny shed 
tears. Dimitrios arose ; he was an altered man. Firm- 
ness was depicted upon every feature of his counte- 
nance. 

“Desist, my friends,” he cried, “the girl is not dead, 
but sleepeth. Even at this moment, Irene is looking 
down upon us from the bosom of a blessed eternity. 
We believe in the communion of saints. She told us 
we soon should follow. A short time, and we will be 
with Irene. Till then Dimitrios will patiently wait — he 


260 


DIMITKIOS IIlEifE. 


will never wed, for he can never love as he loved Irene/^ 

The frame of the young man drew itself up to its 
full height, he looked like an inspired prophet in the 
dim glare of the light that illumined the abode of 
death. With a clear and sonorous voice, he exclaimed : 

‘‘By the bier of her I loved, there is no room for 
revenge; but,” drawing his sword and holding it above 
his head, he added: “henceforth my life is consecrated 
to the service of the Church and of society. The By- 
zantine Empire has fallen, but the great Christian 
Empire lasts; to it this sword belongs — I join the mili- 
tary order of St. John of Jerusalem. Irene, thy voice is 
silent, but I shall hear it still. I shall hear it mid the 
silence of the night; I shall hear it mid the din of 
battle. It will lead me on to deeds of virtue, to deeds 
of heroism, and, when death’s shadows gather round 
me, thy voice, Irene, will bid me welcome to a better 
fatherland, thy voice shall call me home,” 


EPILOGUE. 


Twenty-seven years have passed since the virginal 
hody of Irene Diogenes, clad in white robes, emblematic 
of her innocence, was laid in its coffin. It reposes be- 
neath a simple marble slab, on which the traveler may 
read the inscription, in Greek letters : 

Eireite. 

Not a day has gone by, but it has been visited by 
Dimitrios, who is now a professed Knight of Khodes, 
faithful to the vow he took beside the corpse of Irene. 
He has distinguished himself among his brethren, being 
now a member of the Council of the Grand Master, and, 
consequently, a Grand Cross of the Order. He has 
attached himself to the language or province of Venice, 
as he feels, since the fall of Constantinople, that the 
country of Morosini is nearer to him than any other. 

Great changes have taken place since the mournful 
day when the different characters of our story were 
gathered together in the death-chamber, where lay the 
body of Irene. John Diogenes, faithful to his word, 
renounced the Greek schism, and returned to the bosom 
of the universal Church. He survived his daughter a 
very few years, and died at Ehodes, in the arms of 
Dimitrios, and he has gone to rejoin Irene in the bosom of 
God.’ His son, Basil, who had learned the inconstancy of 
human things at an early period of life, has abandoned 
the world, and he is now a Friar of the Order of Our 
Lady of Mount Carmel at Mantua. Angela Ladrazzoni, 


252 


DIMITRIOS AXD lllEXE. 


touched with compunction at the frailties of her early 
life, and disgusted with the world, now serves Grod in a 
monastery of nuns of the Order of Citeaux, in the 
diocese of Limoges in France, where she weeps in the 
silence of the cloister over the sorrows she caused Dimit- 
rios, and awaits patiently the day that will deliver her 
soul from its captivity. Father Gregorio, now a vener- 
able man, bent under the weight of years, still lives in 
the retirement of his monastic home in Spain, and often 
does his memory wander to scenes of long ago, and do 
familiar faces arise before him. He keeps up a loving 
correspondence with his old friend Dimitrios. Fortuny, 
after a life of countless vicissitudes, abandoned his 
wanderings and returned to his home, where he died 
as a true Christian, in sentiments of great piety. Mor- 
osini and Helena are still among the living, united by 
the sacred ties of matrimony. Their happy home is in 
the Palazzo Morosini, on the Grand Canal at Venice, 
near the old wooden bridge, where, in the future, the 
fine Rialto will span the canal. As by moonlight, they 
float in their gondola, w^hile the soft notes of the man- 
dolin are wafted over the waters, they love to relate to 
their little ones the tales of days long past, and speak 
of their Uncle Dimitrios on the far-off Island of 
Rhodes. 

All attempts at union with the Latin Church have 
ceased at Constantinople, and the wish of old Hotaras 
has been verified: the turban of the Turk is there and 
not the Pope’s tiara. Mahomet II. still reigns ; he is 
determined to subject Rhodes, and he has sworn that he 
Avill cut off the head of the Grand -Master with his own 
hand. He will fail. 


DIMITRIOS AXD IREXE. 2b:^ 

A beautiful day in the early part of the year 1482, is 
lira wing to a close. It is nearly thirty years since first 
we met, reader, in the shadow of St. Sophia’s Dome at 
Constantinople ; another Byzantine dome reflects the 
sun’s light upon us this evening, that of St. Mark’s at 
Venice. Numberless pedestrians stroll about the Piazza 
di San Marco before the sacred edifice, children amuse 
themselves feeding the flocks of tame pigeons that have 
taken possession of the great square, while merchants 
exhibit their heterogenous wares in the various booths 
under the arcades. All seems animated with a com- 
mon feeling of restful joy at the end of the day’s labor. 
All, did I say ? No ; one solitary individual forms an 
exception. Bent, apparently, under the weight of some 
great sorrow, and leaning uj^on a staff, clad in the garb 
of a pilgrim, he moves silently onward. Follow him; 
your curiosity is justiflable, for he may interest you. 
Pass with him through the narrow streets, cross yonder 
bridge, enter that small church, through the doorway 
of which he passes. Behold ! He kneels, his eyes are 
riveted upon some object. Approach nearer. Two 
marble slabs attract your attention. What means the 
inscription in Greek ? On the one to the left I read 
Eirene, on the other, the following sentences : 

‘‘Here lies all that is mortal of Dimitrios Phocas, who 
fell in 1480, at the siege of Rhodes, bravely fighting in 
defence of the faith. May he rest in peace !” 

A little below I read as follows : 

“The bodies of Dimitrios Phocas and Irene Diogenes 
which lie here awaiting the Resurrection were brought 
from Rhodes by the care of Vincent Morosini and his 
wife Helena, the sister of Dimitrios.” 

The pilgrim is deeply touched. The pallor of the 


254 


DIMITRIOS A2sD IKEKE. 


grave spreads over his face, he raises his hands, he 
speaks : 

God, I have found them ! My long life of pen^ 
ance is at an end. Soul of Dimitrios, soul of Irene,, 
pardon me from the bosom of eternity. My God,. 
I thank thee, let me now depart in peace.” 

Lo ! the man falls forward upon the cold marble 
stones, he is motionless. Approach him, lay your hand 
upon his shoulders, you are touching a corpse. 

****** 3|C 

The body of the pilgrim was found by the sacristan, 
and in his bosom lay concealed a paper containing the 
following : 

“Over seas and lands have I wandered, since, almost 
miraculously, 1 was rescued from the waves, on that 
awful night. Long has been my penance, bitter were 
my tears, but a God of mercy has been merciful to me. 
I found rest for my soul in the bosom of the true 
faith on the tomb of Our Saviour at Jerusalem. Now, 
I seek for naught save to discover those whom I have 
injured, and to implore their pardon.” 

Morosini and Helena, having heard of this sudden 
death in the Church, defrayed the expenses of the 
funeral. The dead man was consigned to the earth 
at the feet of the two whose enemy he had been. A 
simple slab marks the place where he rests, bearing 
the single inscription : ^^Nicolaus’^ the name of the- 
one who there awaits the Resurrection together with the 
ashes of 


Dimiteios and Ikene. 








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